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£ Optimus Series No. n. Nov. i, 1891. Issued Semi-Monthly. Subscription Price, $12.00 per year. 
Entered at Chicago P. O. as Second-Class Matter. 


BY EDOUARD DELPIT. 


Illustrated 


DONOHUE, HENNEBERKY & CO., F’latolishiers, 

407-425 Dearborn Street , CH I CA GO. 


JONEL FORTUNAT. 


By Marco Brociner. 12M0. Paper Cover. 
Illustrated. 


“A story of Roumanian life, written with consider- 
able skill, full of graphic description and abounding 
in incident. Some of the scenes are dramatic to a 
degree and present a new and hitherto untouched 
field for the readers of fiction. — The San Francisco 
Report . 

“A very interesting story of Roumanian life and 
ways, Christians and Jews, beggars and peasants, and 
it is all so odd, and so out of the ordinary run, that 
reading it is like a trip to the unknown country which 
it describes/’ — The New Orleans Picayune, 

“It is handsomely illustrated, and the story is 
intensely thrilling, with powerfully drawn charac- 
ters. — Columbus ( Ga .) Enquirer- Sun. 

“Is one of the most powerful romances published 
for a long time/’ — The Seattle Post- Intelligencer, 

DONOHUE, HENNE3ERRY & CO., Publishers, 

CHICAGO. 


A BROKEN CHAIN. 








* 






















































































• v 










































* 






































































































I must have one hundred and forty thousand francs 
at once.” — (p. 7.) 


A Broken Chain 

% 


BY 


EDOUARD DELPIT. 


yS't&S 0r ' C ° A '<S*1 ^ 

/V 1 c oP VRlG* r *-V\ 

rM* »)' 


TRANSLATED BY 


ALEXINA LORANGER. 


» » 
i » i 


CHICAGO: 

DONOHUE, HENNEBERRY & CO. 
1891. 


TZ'S 


Copyright, 1891, 

BY 

Donohue, Henneberry & Co. 




DONOHUE & HENNEBERRY, 
PRINTERS AND BINDERS, 
CHICAGO. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


CHAPTER I 

It was nearly ten o'clock one morning in the month 
of November, 1883, as two young men sauntered out 
of one of the most fashionable Parisian clubs. Fa- 
tigued from a sleepless night, their eyes still accus- 
tomed to the glaring lights of the salons, they stopped 
for a moment, dazzled by the bright daylight. 
A flood of sunshine bathed the house-tops, casting 
its golden fringe over the fronts of the houses to the 
street below. Notwithstanding the lateness of the 
season the air was bracing and the sky clear and 
blue. The boulevards were already alive with car- 
riages and the circulating throng momentarily increas- 
ing. That great intense life, already commenced — 
though it never stops — was almost at its full height. 

“Scandalous! that is my opinion,” muttered Com- 
mandant de Sainte-Avene as he raised his coat-collar. 
“We are scandalous. Don’t you think so, Anderic? 
I am fortunate in not being my own son, for I would 
administer myself some rather forcible paternal ad- 
vice.” 

Instead of replying, his companion beckoned to a 
5 


6 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


cabman, who immediately answered the summons. 

“What! are you going to leave me?” exclaimed 
the commandant in surprise. “But no! come, we 
shall breakfast together.” 

“Impossible,” rejoined his friend. “I have urgent 
business to attend to.” 

“You? the most idle of men,” said Sainte-Avene, 
shaking his head doubtfully and looking, annoyed at 
the refusal. “But then, I have no wish to be indis- 
creet. If you have business to attend to — ” 

“Yes. But to-morrow — ” 

“You forget that I leave this afternoon.” 

“True enough! — one reason more, then, why I 
should leave you now. I shall see you again by and 
by, Sainte-Avene.” 

“Very well, my dear Anderic.” 

They shook hands warmly; Anderic gave the ad- 
dress to the coachman and jumped into the carriage. 
A few minutes later he rang the bell at one of the 
prettiest houses on the Avenue Friedland, near the 
Arc de Triojnphe. He was ushered into a luxuri- 
ously furnished room, decorated with discreet and 
exquisite taste, where all ostentatious display had 
been banished as a vain superfluity. 

The master of the house soon made his appearance, 
smiling affably, and with open arms. 

“What good fortune brings you here, my dear 
count?” he cried. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


7 


Anderic did not rush into the open arms, however, 
but replied in a haughty tone: 

“Would good fortune bring me here, Keissman? 
It would be the first time.” 

“Ah! — What is it then, Monsieur de Nivron?” 

The young man threw back the fur coat which con- 
cealed his evening dress, passed his hand over the 
white cravat which remained unruffled through the 
emotions of the game, and, notwithstanding his hesi- 
tating glance, said in a careless tone: 

“I must have one hundred and forty thousand 
francs, at once.” 

Keissman pointed to an arm-chair near the fire- 
place and took a seat opposite. Whatever might be 
Nathan Keissman’s profession, he exercised it as a 
gentleman. So many great families had stranded and 
foundered in his home, in the persons of their amia- 
ble heirs, that first the dwelling, and then by degrees 
its occupant had acquired a varnish of elegance — 
just as the chameleon borrows its colors from the 
plants to which it clings. 

“I regret to say that I have no funds of which I can 
dispose.” 

“To others!” 

“I certainly make an essential difference between 
you and others. Monsieur le Comte, although logically 
I should make none, for you are totally ruined.” 

“This explains your want of funds?” 


8 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“I have a daughter,” muttered Keissman, shrug- 
ging his shoulders. 

“And I, a creditor. Your daughter can wait; my 
creditor is going away. You are mistaken, Keiss- 
man ; I am not totally ruined. M. Gaulier, my no- 
tary, has received the authorization to sell Viellefort. 

I sent it to him last night.” 

“And Viellefort was sold three months ago.” 

“Three months! — Why did you not say so before? — 
I must see Gaulier at once.” 

“I would advise you to do so.” 

The bird of prey never abandons its victim while 
there is a drop of blood or a grain of flesh left. Keiss- 
man’s tranquillity, therefore, surprised Anderic; it 
foreboded no good. He resolved to sound him. 

“If Viellefort is sold, why do you refuse me this 
loan of one hundred and forty thousand francs?” 

“Because you will scarcely touch one penny of the 
amount received. Your late uncle, M. le Comte de 
Nivron, had mortgaged it for the sum of two hundred 
thousand francs in favor of Prat, his steward.” 

“Yes, I remember.” 

“Your memory did not serve you as well in regard 
to the payment of interest, and it has in consequence 
eaten up your property. I repeat it, your authoriza- 
tion of yesterday was three months late. This is 
what comes of traveling with pretty women. As the 
Indians say, ‘the pleasures that break the limbs, 
sometimes break the back also.’” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


9 


Keissman might have continued his aphorisms in- 
definitely but Anderic was not listening. Ruin arose 
before him against these walls which perspired an in- 
visible gold — gold brought to this cavern by himself 
and others like him. Here, his fortune had melted 
as if in a crucible. But he was not thinking of this 
in that supreme moment of disaster. A name rang 
in his ears, a face haunted him: it was that of Sainte- 
Avene, with its frowning, ill-humored and satirical 
expression. He must pay Sainte-Avene at any cost, 
and at once, since he was leaving for Africa. 

“Come, Keissman, be reasonable,” he said. 

“There is Gaulier, your grandfather’s, your father’s, 
your uncle’s, and your own notary — why in the deuce 
don’t you ask him?” 

Patience was.not one of Anderic’s virtues, and this 
correct, imperturbable face, with its expression of 
the grand seigneur — this mask of a sordid and vulgar 
soul, jarred on his nerves. 

“My venerable friend, M. Gaulier, is not a usurer,” 
he retorted quickly. 

“He is right,” replied the phlegmatic Keissman, 
“there is too much risk.” 

“Is this your final decision?” 

“Do you ask me seriously?” 

“Yes, seriously.” 

“Listen, Monsieur de Nivron; I feel a deep inter- 
est in you — ” 

“Indeed?” 


TO 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“On my honor! And I will try to prove it. I have 
long had my eye on you.” 

“I am quite flattered.” 

“In spite of your youthful extravagances — ” 

“What?” 

“You appear to me the perfect type of a true gen- 
tleman: good, brave and loyal. If I were to confide 
what I have most precious in the world to someone, 
I would make you the sole trustee. You are ruined 
it is true, but in a particularly enviable condition, for 
you have but to will it to become the possessor of 
millions. Your uncle’s will makes you his sole heir 
under the simple condition that you marry. Why do 
you hesitate?” 

“I do not hesitate in the least. I may be ruined, 
but will never be married. No! I prefer the army.” 

“As you choose, but you will none the less be dis- 
graced at the club no later than to-morrow.” 

A cold perspiration froze Anderic’s temples while 
Keissman closely watched the change in his counte- 
nance. 

“A good resolution,” resumed Keissman, “and I 
will count out one hundred and forty thousand francs 
on the spot.” 

“You must then have a fiancee for me in your 
safe?” 

“Perhaps!” 

“The deuce!” 

“On the day you submit to your uncle’s wishes, 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


I I 

you enter into possession of his landed estate, which 
he has made inalienable and to which it would be 
proper to add Viellefort.” 

“Sold, Keissman, you told me so yourself a few 
moments ago. It is sold!” 

“But repurchased on the spot by M. Gaulier, for 
Prat was but the instrument. Moreover, one million 
in cash comes into your hands on the day of your 
marriage contract; one million of which you shall 
have the free disposal, the rest goes to your children 
— unless you prefer to see it go to charitable institu- 
tions. You are therefore a brilliant match: two hun- 
dred thousand francs of income, a million in cash in 
your pocket — ” 

“And the firm resolution of dying a bachelor.” 

“Even if I intrdouce you to a beautiful, intelligent 
and accomplished young girl, as rich as yourself in 
perspective?” 

“How much for brokerage?” 

Keissman arose, bowed solemnly to Anderic, whom 
this preamble placed on his guard, and in a voice of 
mingled affection and pride, said: 

“The honor of having you for a son-in-law, my dear 
count.” 

In one bound the count was on his feet, his brow 
contracted, his nostrils dilated, his eyes flashing: 
“Your price is too high! Good day!” he cried with 
withering scorn as he banged the door behind him, 
leaving the presumptuous financier astounded at this 


12 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


rebellious pride, and discomfited at having exposed 
his daughter to so perfectly characterized an outrage. 

Charles-Maximilian-Anderic de Nivron, was the 
only surviving heir of one of the noblest families of 
Bourgogne and an orphan from childhood. He had 
been brought up by an uncle — his father’s eldest 
brother — in a manner very agreeable to both, inasmuch 
as the child had the continual satisfaction of his every 
whim, and the old man the happiness of an unshared 
affection. Anderic had therefore become accustomed 
to see the bright side of life only, leaving the cold and 
shadows for others. This complete freedom, though 
it might have unrooted his natural virtues, merely 
spread a gloss of egotism on this young soul. Charm- 
ing, distingue, very handsome, with a fine silky mus- 
tache that half-concealed lips on which there always 
lurked a sarcastic smile, of tall and elegant figure, a 
good horseman and a master shot, he was particularly 
dangerous through the somewhat morbid and femi- 
nine grace of his whole person. He had been early 
launched in the world, and committed all sorts of ex- 
travagant follies in Paris which cost him his fortune. 
He soon realized the truth of that arithmetic operation, 
in which the divisor exceeding the dividend, the quo- 
tient is zero. But exact science harassed him, and 
besides, he considered his uncle an inexhaustible mine, 
so he continued to astound his companions. It was 
his turn to be astounded, however, when he was sud- 
denly summoned to Chateau de Nivron and threat- 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


13 


ened with dire disaster if he did not marry at once. 
However alluring may be a certain form of suicide, 
it possesses no charm to one who has no wish to com- 
mit suicide in any form; and Anderic made but one 
bound from the chateau to the station. His uncle 
was much grieved, for he approved his nephew’s res- 
olution in secret; but he nevertheless counted on his 
financial situation to make him marry, and on his 
marriage to save their name. This was the objective. 
He could not allow the genealogical tree of a family, 
which had scrupulously observed the propagation of 
race for a half-dozen centuries, to dry through a mere 
caprice. For his part he had remitted this task to 
his younger brother, who had paid their common 
debt in the person of the refractory and delicious An- 
deric. And he could not evade a servitude which 
had almost become an appanage. His enthuisasm, 
however, may be judged by his astonishment and 
flight. 

Touched by his disappointment, the count’s dowa- 
ger friends resolved to console him. They reminded 
him that there existed, within a few rods of the cha- 
teau, a very handsome person, of thirty-six years of 
age, and gifted with a sufficient number of virtues. 
In a word, the person in question was Mademoiselle 
Johanna de Rochemaure, who would make an admi- 
rable wife, and, if it pleased Providence, furnish an 
heir to the house de Nivron. He knew her antece- 
dents well. Her father, a widower with a son in the 


14 - A BROKEN CHAIN 

army, had married her mother, a German from the 
North, who possessed the three qualifications of being 
protestant, sentimental and jealous. Soon after Jo- 
hanna’s birth, her husband died, and the widow lost 
no time in leaving France. She settled in Spandau, 
where she soon ruined herself by her extravagance, 
became an invalid with no one but her daughter to 
nurse her. Mademoiselle de Rochemaure had nobly 
consecrated herself to her duty, so unreservedly in 
fact, that at her mother’s death, her bright, beautiful 
eyes, which had been her only dowry, were nearly 
worn with watching. Left without resources, she 
took refuge with a rich brother of her mother, and 
paid highly the privilege of gratuitous hospitality. 
It was a hell, and she wrote to a cousin, married to a 
Parisian artist, begging her to assist her. Madame 
de Mac Oney forwarded the letter to M. de Roche- 
maure, and the latter, who, for the past thirty years 
had completely forgotten his sister, hastened in quest 
of her and brought her to the fraternal fireside. This 
fireside was cheerless. M. de Rochemaure had sud- 
denly lost his idolized wife, and under the influence 
of his despair had resigned his commission in the 
army, retired to his estates, and devoted his life to 
the education of his daughter Edith, and a handsome 
youth whom he had partly adopted. He begged 
Johanna as a favor, to make her home with them, but 
she was not duped by this delicacy, and vowed a veri- 
table devotion to this brother who opened his house 


■ * 

A BROKEN CHAIN I 5 

and heart to her. The adoration, increased as she 
learned to appreciate him better, extended to Edith, 
whom she had loved from the first day, assumed 
proportions of apotheosis, and the noble creature — 
always somewhat romantic — gave free rein to her 
pent-up affection and devotion. 

Count de Nivron knew the different phases of this 
irreproachable existence. This, added to his resent- 
ment against Anderic, facilitated the operations of 
his dowager friends. He believed himself responsible 
to his ancestors for the future of his race, and he 
therefore laid siege to the Chateau de Fresnois. But 
at the first fire, the garrison, represented by Johanna, 
cried out in horror. M. de Rochemaure urged capit- 
ulation, in vain. It was an honorable alliance; M. de 
Nivron had been an intimate friend of their father’s 
and notwithstanding his age — 

“What do I care about his age,” interrupted Jo- 
hanna, “although to tell the truth, I consider it highly 
indecent in a man of his age. Besides, do you sup- 
pose I was made to get married ?” 

“The same as everybody else.” 

“That is, no doubt, why nobody ever asked me.” 

“You see very well that — ” 

“No, no, no! But why do you insist! Am I in 
your way? Tell me, am I in your way?” 

“You know better.” 

“Then, what is it?” 

“But, consider, my dear- -there are things we must 


1 6 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


provide for — life is so uncertain ! and especially, so 
short! Who can tell what to-morrow may bring? I 
may be wrong in speaking to you in this way — I have 
no wish to grieve you; only I feel that I am failing 
ever day. When I am gone you- shall be too much 
alone, Edith and you.” 

“How absurd you are. Besides, how can we ever 
be alone when there are two of us?” 

There was no gainsaying such reasonings. While 
the battle still continued to rage, Anderic, repenting 
his hasty action, came to make a visit of apology to 
his uncle. He was, of course, received with open 
arms and heard the news of the pending hostilities 
with a smile. The thought that he would lose his in- 
heritance on the day that a treaty of peace was 
signed, never troubled him for a single moment. 
Disinterestedness armed him against mean regrets. 
His tranquillity would henceforth be assured, if Mad- 
emoiselle de Rochemaure lowered her flag, and this 
would be an inestimable privilege. To hasten mat- 
ters, he became an assiduous visitor at Fresnois, 
began to plead what he called his own cause, lauded 
the old count’s virtues, and never dreamed that this 
courtship in the name of a third person, resembled 
a courtship in his own name. So much zeal turned 
against him however. The amazed Johanna heard 
his voice more than his words, and looked at him 
still more than she listened to him. What beautiful 
eyes and fine figure! The shoulders of a Hercules 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


1 7 


with the waist of a wasp, the brow of a thinker, with 
a ray of poetry — what she found admirable in the 
uncle was the nephew. Indeed she could marry the 
former still less when she understood the impossi- 
bility of marrying the latter. He was only a child, 
but what an adorable child! with the fire and spirit of 
his twenty years, his clear loyal gaze, his renounce- 
ments — the romantic side of this excellent woman’s 
nature asserted itself. Edith and M. de Rochemaure 
ceased to be the sole inhabitants of her heart; Anderic 
took his place beside them — it was a strange senti- 
ment, less passionate than love, less calm than friend- 
ship, more that of a sister than a mother, yet more 
motherly than sisterly. Johanna now had veritable 
paroxysms of indignation when the subject of mar- 
riage was broached to her. It did not only irritate 
her on her own account, but it also seemed a Ma- 
chiavelian theft, an unpardonable ambush. She was 
determined that the young man should receive his 
inheritance, and since he must submit to the matri- 
monial tyrannies of his uncle, she would do the impos- 
sible to render them acceptable, even though she 
were obliged to go to the end of the world herself, in 
search of the miraculous woman who was to cure 
him of his anticonjugal prejudices. 

And in all her conversations, Anderic continually 
returned, grew, radiated, before M. de Rochemaure’s 
eyes and a great deal more to little Ed*$h, who always* 


i8 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


kept herself timidly out of sight during the visit of 
this hero. 

“You love him more than me,” she said one day to 
her aunt. 

The whole brightness of the beautiful sunset illumi- 
nated and lighted up Johanna’s face. Her two 
deepest affections, Edith and Anderic, unconsciously 
melted into one. From that day, her path was clear 
before her. Leaving all scruples aside, never think- 
ing for a moment of the oddness of a step little 
authorized by circumstances, she asked M. de Nivron 
for a secret interview, from which they emerged 
quite enchanted. 

Having expressed her gratitude for the count’s 
flattering offer of marriage, she excused her refusal 
by pointing out how necessary she was to Fresnois 
and her interest in Anderic. She demonstrated that 
there was no harm in allowing the young man to 
become a man, while Edith, with time, would become 
an accomplished fiancee. They would then unite 
them and the long series of de Nivron would run no 
risk of being interrupted. The compact concluded, 
Johanna acquired full sway over the two chateaux of 
Nivron and Fresnois — Viellefort which constituted 
the rest of Anderic’s property counting only at the 
mortgage bureau. The incorrigible nephew, who 
was no longer disturbed in his pleasures, obtained a 
loan of two hundred thousand francs from his uncle 
on this security. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


19 


Three years passed by without changing anything 
in appearance, except that M. de Rochemaure died 
and also the relative with whom Johanna had taken 
refuge, at the time of her mother’s death, leaving 
her sole heiress of his possessions. The hunting sea- 
son brought Anderic to Bourgogne periodically, and 
regularly at the end of six weeks he disappeared, 
brilliant and fugitive as a meteor. 

“Things are not progressing very fast, my dear 
friend,” said M. de Nivron. 

“It will come out all right, I assure you; leave it to 
me,” replied Johanna. 

She wanted to do too well. We are often lost 
through our best intentions, which should prevent us 
from ever entertaining any. Her ill-timed zeal put 
things beyond her reach. 

Worn out by his wild life, Anderic came to the 
chateau to recover his breath. Between his horses, 
a daily visit to Fresnois and a chat with his uncle, 
the hours passed somehow or other. It was not gay, 
but endurable, and might have done well enough had 
not Mademoiselle de Rochemaure taken it into her 
head to make him admire little Edith. An unformed 
girl, with big, red hands, tangled hair, and timid air, 
who bowed awkwardly — when she did bow — and 
spoke in a hoarse voice. He only saw in her an 
insignificant, overgrown girl in short petticoats, 
whom he might have danced on his knee. When 
Johanna began to sing her praises, he acquiesced 


20 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


through politeness; when she passed to eulogy, he 
thought she must be laughing at him; but when she 
reached the dithyrambic, a light dawned on him. 
They were then setting a trap for him. He ques- 
tioned his uncle, who confessed the truth. Two 
hours later, Anderic was leaving the chateau, and 
the next day M. de Nivron, under the inspiration of 
Johanna, made a new will. Then, as if to give more 
weight to his last wishes, he departed for a better 
world to join his ancestors. 

Anderic paid a large tribute to his memory, and 
his carelessness even decreased. Although a bad cal- 
culator, he could not help prognosticating the embar- 
rassment his tastes and habits would soon cause him. 
Viellefort was already considerably amputated, and 
would not last long. He therefore began to put some 
order to his general disorder. He was incapable of 
reforming all at once, but he nevertheless diminished 
his stable, did not allow himself to be loved as much 
as formerly, and was of exemplary reserve at the 
club. One of his last follies had been his sojourn on 
the shores of the Neva in company with a very posi • 
tive charmer. On his return after a few weeks, he 
suspected Viellefort to be about gone and realized 
that it was beyond his power to regain it. Melan- 
choly thoughts then assailed him. He remembered, 
with a certain regret, his noble uncle, so generous, 
so affectionate, so full of solicitude, mingled with 
obstinacy, as was proved by his supreme dispositions, 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


21 


paraphrased as a defiance — a command from beyond 
the grave to take a wife or have nothing. Well, then! 
it would be nothing. This is what drove him to his 
last act of folly. The agitation of his thoughts, 
mingled so completely the actual and the dead hours, 
that all was confusion in his mind. The come-and- 
go of the members of the club before the sofa on 
which he sat dreaming, the buzzing of conversation, 
the table where M. de Sainte-Avene complained 
against the obstinacy of ill-luck, and on the other 
side the former generosity of his uncle, the high forest 
of Nivron, all that past of tranquil luxury drove away 
reality. The most precious service imagination can 
render us is to annihilate the present and its bitter- 
ness, to soothe us with the calm happiness of the past. 

He approached the players, dropped a few blue 
notes, and became so fascinated by the game, as he 
saw the pile increasing, that the next morning he 
found himself deeply in debt to de Sainte-Avene. It 
was rather a disagreeable awakening, but he consoled 
himself with the thought of Viellefort, thinking he 
might save something from the wreck. 

But Keissman had blasted his hopes at one blow. 

Andefic could scarcely tell which exasperated him 
most, the announcement of his complete ruin or the 
offer of his daughter’s hand, and he reached M. 
Gaulier’s house in a great state of excitement. The 
notary welcomed him with warmth, having been con- 
f I- tyid with the young man’s family for half a century. 


22 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“Where have you been hiding, and what are you 
doing?” he asked. 

“What am I doing? I am looking for one hundred 
and forty thousand francs.” 

“Ah! as usual, no small sum will satisfy you.” 

“Viellefort is sold, I am told.” 

“Yes, and if you can spare me a moment I will 
explain the situation. Your uncle loaned you two 
hundred thousand francs on Viellefort.” 

“Represented by a mortgage, in Prat’s name.” 

“About three months ago suit was brought by a 
certain Keissman — ” 

“Ah! ah!” 

“I must say that you associate with fine people. 
This Keissman held notes to the value of fifteen 
thousand pounds — ” 

“Of which I have had a third!” 

“Don’t boast of it — he invaded my study and 
declared that you had disappeared, and as he 
feared to lose his money he would sell your property. 
Not knowing your whereabouts, I had to do the 
best I could. I made arrangements with Prat, paid 
the notes, and transferred Viellefort to the Nivron 
estate. When you marry it will therefore all come 
back into your hands.” 

Anderic smiled as he thought of this ironical mar- 
riage of a fortune which left him in misery. He 
related his adventures of the night, his anxieties, the 
anguish of his first struggle in life, his terror of failing 
in a sacred engagement. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


23 


“What demon drove me there?” he cried bitterly. 
“I arrived yesterday from St. Petersburg and had 
not the least intention of playing — had I gone to bed 
instead of entering the club — ” 

“You should not be worried about this miserable 
debt, but you would nevertheless be ruined.” 

“With the difference that I could still join the army 
while now there is Sainte-Avene — do you understand? 
An obligation, a necessity. Oh! the impudence of that 
rascally Jew. His daughter! I have the choice 
between his daughter and a bullet through the brain. 
I prefer the bullet, do you hear?” 

“And I congratulate you on the choice,” observed 
the notary with a sly look at his young friend. The 
old man had long foreseen that this charming spend- 
thrift would be forced to submit to his uncle’s wishes 
sooner or later. “Yes,” he repeated with a shade 
of raillery, “I congratulate you heartily, for of the 
two extremes it is certainly the best. Only a bullet 
through the brain is a. grave solution. It is so difficult 
to return to life.” 

“You are laughing at me, my excellent friend.” 

“Perhaps. Now, my dear Anderic, what have you 
to reproach Mademoiselle Keissman?” 

“Her origin.” 

“Suppress it.” 

“Even if I killed the father?” 

“That would be excessive. But we can find some- 
one of a more acceptable origin.” 


24 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“Who would become my wife?” 

“Assuredly.” 

“Before two o’clock this very afternoon?” 

“Of course we shall have to go through more 
formalities.” 

“And while these are being accomplished Sainte- 
Avene will brand me. Paris will point its finger at 
me. I shall be the insolvent gentleman. My dear 
friend, you have violent but inefficacious remedies. 
And besides, I will never marry! No, I swear it. 
Only imbeciles or virtuous men can come to that 
resolution.” 

“I do not ask you to become an imbecile; become 
virtuous, that is all.” 

“The recipe?” 

“I do not possess it, but it cannot be difficult. 
The sight of the Pont du Gard sufficed Rousseau. 
Do like the Swiss, my boy. In the winter they work 
down in the valley, and regain the summits with the 
fine weather. You have labored until now by plunging 
into the bogs of pleasure; reascend toward the pure 
and fresh atmosphere. Will you permit me to be 
frank with you? Be a man! For you would be mis- 
taken in believing yourself one.” 

“Pray don’t judge me harshly.” 

“But—” 

“But you have not paid highly, as I have done, to 
learn to know women. Ah, my venerable friend, 
what illusions could I have retained? You may blame 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


25 


the sort of existence I have led, but it at least has 
the merit of having edified me on many subjects. 
‘Woman’, says the learned man, ‘is the desolation of 
the just;’ it is also that of the unjust. It may be 
the cloak of lead attached to the shoulders of the 
damned of Dante, but I prefer it to that composi- 
tion of gauze, tulle, and cotton which sees everything 
and knows nothing, which wants everything and gives 
nothing, which — ” 

“You might as well admit that your excursion to 
St. Petersburg — ” 

“Was a charming excursion,” interrupted the young 
man with a smile, for Gaulier was mistaken; the 
shores of the Neva were a terrestrial paradise, only 
the apples were beyond his means. “Yes, charming, 
and I should have remained there twenty-four hours 
longer. No, I am merely expressing the depth of my 
thoughts; I am giving you the result of my experi- 
ence.” 

“You are severe.” 

“Infinitely less than Hippocrates, Saint Thomas, 
or Pope Innocent III.” 

“You may change your opinion.” 

“Not until woman* herself changes — and that is 
against the order of probable things.” 

“Your choice then is a bullet through the head.” 

“But you assure me that one cannot return,” he 
retorted laughing. 

The notary saw that his young friend was losing his 


26 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


grounds and asked for nothing better than a helping 
hand. His prejudices against marriage were almost 
torn by the roots, by the storm that had assailed them 
in the last few hours. 

“Do you want an adorable wife?” suggested Gaulier. 

“Whom I know?” 

“Yes.” 

“I have never yet known an adorable woman.” 

“Edith de Rochemaure.” 

“That child!” he exclaimed, recalling the awkward 
bows and timid manner of the overgrown girl he had 
known. 

“That child, as you call her, is twenty and an angel.” 

“Naturally.” 

“And richer than you shall ever be. Give me your 
word that you will marry her within six months and I 
shall furnish you the means of paying Sainte- 
Avene.” 

“But, my friend, she is undoubtedly married.” 

“She might be if it were not that her aunt destines 
her to you.” 

“To me! Great heavens! — but it is only what I 
deserve. A pretty scheme! and you are an accom- 
plice? You, who flattered me by not taking me for 
an imbecile! — Why an imbecile would have seen 
through it — chekmated by an old maid!” 

“Come, give me your word” 

Auderic hesitated a moment to save appearances, 
but he was conquered. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


27 


“You have it,” he replied. “But I pity the poor 
child; I shall despise her.” 

“No, no, you will not do that,” expostulated the 
old man. 

“You shall see. At any rate, I shall deceive no 
one. Write the plain truth to Mademoiselle de Roche- 
maure.” 

“That is?” 

“That I marry through compulsion.” 

“You hope to be refused? I shall write neverthe- 
less.” 

Gaulier opened his safe and counted out a few bank 
notes. 

“Here is the money,” he said to Anderic; “you see 
I have no fear.” 

“Very well; I feel no scruples in pocketing them in 
that case,” he replied as he placed them in safety. 

“When shall I write?” asked the notary. 

“To-day, since it is inevitable. And it is inevitable, 
is it not?” 

“Have you ever heard of a Nivron breaking his 
word?” 

“Never. The sooner then, the better.” 

“Your uncle would be delighted; you shall make a 
delicious marriage.” 

“My dear friend, La Rochefoucault is right; there 
are good marriages, and none delicious.” 


CHAPTER II 


A few days later, Edith de Rochemaure, the inno- 
cent girl destined to the love — or hatred — of the 
Comte de Nivron, was walking on the terrace of the 
Chateau de Fresnois. She was accompanied by Ma- 
demoiselle Fernande de Mac-Oney, Johanna’s distant 
cousin. Edith’s aunt owed the Mac-Oney family the 
offer of her brother’s home, and she overwhelmed 
them with proofs of her gratitude for this service. 
Being poor, they took advantage of this by sending 
Fernande as frequently as possible to Fresnois. 

Fernande and Edith were of the same age and linked 
by a close intimacy, although none could ever dream 
of a more undesirable friendship than that which ex- 
isted between the two young girls. For the appella- 
tion of angel, bestowed by M. Gaulier on Edith, was 
certainly out of place when applied to Fernande. 
Without asserting that she held theories on life and 
its mysteries which had been already corroborated by 
practice, it may be admitted that a demon of the 
blackest dye had early invaded and taken possession 
of her heart and imagination. Her father had for- 
merly possessed some wealth and married early in 
life. He was an artist of some merit, and his wife 
was a German whom he had met in Cologne. Their 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


29 


union began in roses, but they plucked the leaves too 
fast, and soon nothing was left but the thorns. Hav- 
ing been brought up in luxury, they made great 
efforts to retain their position in the world. Fer- 
nande, who saw and realized these struggles, con- 
tracted an insurmountable horror of privations. Her 
father’s studio, in transporting her in the midst of 
splendors, rich draperies, silks and velvets, dazzling 
armor, created a fictitious world around her, in which 
her instincts found food, but which cast a deeper 
gloom on stern reality. She determined to conquer 
fate and rectify its injustices. It only required a little 
tact. What she saw and heard in her father’s studio 
sufficed to develop her mind. She felt not only in 
the humor, but also strong enough to devour the first 
victim — worthy of being devoured — which chance 
should place in her path. The opportunity was not 
long in coming. 

Prince Serge Jamidoff, a Russian, was presented to 
the Mac-Oney family, and Fernande immediately pro- 
ceeded to make careful inquiries. She learned that 
the handsome Jamidoff was not only free but enor- 
mously rich. He was the desired and longed-for 
prey. She immediately cast her nets and landed him 
with the dexterity of an experienced hand. But the 
best tactics are sometimes foiled by unforeseen events, 
and fate often takes pleasure in thwarting our ambi- 
tions. In the midst of their effusions, Prince Jami- 
doff, who was an attache at the embassy, was recalled 


30 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


to Russia. The lovers were therefore forced to part 
after an exchange of eternal vows of fidelity. 

“You are my fiance; you take my heart with you!” 
cried Fernande in a tone of despair. 

“You keep my soul; you are my life, my desire, my 
all,” he murmured brokenly. 

“Serge, it is for life!” 

“And beyond, Fernande!” 

On such long terms, love runs the risk of being for- 
gotten. Serge possessed a good memory, but his 
mother took it upon herself to settle matters for him. 
Distrustful of Parisian women in general, and of Ma- 
demoiselle de Mac-Oney in particular, she prevailed 
on his majesty, the czar, to choose a wife for her 
scan. It would have been perilous to decline so much 
honor, and Jamidoff married the designated wife with 
distress in his soul. Fernande still remained his love, 
but the rest was for the “beyond.” With these bro- 
ken dreams, Fernande’s small stock of amiable qual- 
ities also crumbled away. She had terrible par- 
oxysms oi rage rather than despair. Paris, the stu- 
dio, the little boudoir that had witnessed their ardent 
protestations of love, all became odious to her. It 
seemed to her that everybody had heard of her love 
episode, and looked at her with an air of insulting 
commiseration. Before resuming her campaign, she 
judged it prudent to allow Serge to be forgotten, and 
trusting to hazard to wash away the outrage, she 
started for Fresnois. Never had she reached the 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


31 


chateau with such a store of hatred and resentment in 
her heart ; but neither Johanna nor Edith suspected the 
tempest that raged within her. Being skillful in win- 
ning confidences, insinuating and deceitful, she was 
soon in possession of all their secrets without having 
betrayed one single thought of her own. 

There was small merit in this, however, for these 
two simple creatures were too artless to be suspicious. 
Johanna counted on Anderic; Edith awaited him. 
They had not seen him since his uncle’s death, and 
everything indicated that he cared no more for Bour- 
gogne than he did for his first horse, but he must 
come sooner or later — of that they never doubted. It 
was almost the confidence of the fatalist. And once 
Johanna settled some point in her mind, it was no 
easy task to convince her otherwise. 

Edith loved Anderic de Nivron. How? and why? 
She knew not. It had been her childhood impres- 
sion, and it had remained her girlhood dream. At 
twenty, she had nothing but souvenirs — but how vivid 
they were! — and she made them a source of happi- 
ness. All suitors were unhesitatingly refused; it was 
either M. de Nivron or no one. Each day, each in- 
stant, Edith evoked his image and dreamed on, peace- 
ful, untroubled, resigned perhaps, for indefinite wait- 
ing is a half-resignation 

On this November morning, as she walked along 
the terrace with Fernande at her side, the image still 
floated before her eyes. Behind the park, beyond 


32 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


the glimpse of the valley seen through the trees, in 
the dark forest, at the summit of the hillock almost 
concealed in the fog, arose the severe outlines of Viel- 
lefort, standing like a giant on a pedestal of granite, 
with its towers embattled like a fortress and dominate 
ing the surrounding country. Toward the left was 
the Chateau de Nivron. The whole of Edith’s hori- 
zon was bounded by recollections of Anderic. From 
over there, everything spoke of him. 

“Children,” cried Johanna from the window, “will 
you come with me to the Ravin?” 

“To see your game-keeper, Bonnel?” asked Fer- 
nande shrugging her shoulders. 

“Yes, I must see him on urgent business. Will you 
come, Edith?” 

“If you wish it, aunt,” said Mademoiselle de Roche- 
maure, “although we are very comfortable here.” 

“Very well, you may stay, but I am going. Syl- 
vain reached home last night, and Prat says he is dy- 
ing.” 

“Sylvain dying! — Heavens!” 

“Good-bye, children.” 

“No, no, I am going too,” cried Edith. “Will you 
come, Fernande?” 

Under any other circumstance, Mademoiselle Mac- 
Oney would have refused, for at Fresnois she heard 
of these Bonnels to satiety. Their exploits and de- 
votion to M. de Rochemaure were an inexhaustible 
theme of conversation. She had met the father, and 


A BROKEN CHAIN 33 

he bored her horribly; but his son Sylvain, whom 
Edith’s father had almost adopted, was somewhat of 
a hero in her eyes, a well-known Parisian poet whose 
talents were much praised by women. After all, 
since he was dying, it would be pleasant to say she 
had heard the last song of the poet and she decided 
to accompany her friends. 

Edith walked on rapidly, for she loved Sylvain as a 
brother. The news of his dangerous illness over- 
whelmed her. Her large melancholy eyes filled with 
a deeper sadness. Her beautiful and ordinarily calm 
features were now contracted with an expression of 
mingled anxiety and grief. Notwithstanding her hur- 
ried step, she seemed to glide over the graveled walk, 
her tall and flexible figure undulating gracefully be- 
neath the leafless branches. 

Even before a Jamidoff, Fernande could not have 
sustained a favorable comparison when beside her. 
Edith’s regular features, her carriage, the simplicity 
of her toilette contrasted with the petulance of gest- 
ure, the irregularity of features and the frivolous 
dress of her companion. But Fernande, in revenge, 
possessed a sort of bewitchingness entirely her own. 
Her small gray eyes, cut a la Chinoise , her full 
rounded bust, and her thick red lips said an infinity 
of things of which Edith had not the first suspicion. 
When she burst into a peal of laughter and threw her 
blonde head back, the pearly teeth and outstretched 
neck seemed to provoke a shower of kisses. Her 

3 


34 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


skirts rustled like an appeal, or when she raised them 
slightly — as she had a habit of doing — she revealed 
incomparable feet and ankles. After all, perhaps 
Jamidoff would have still given her the palm. 

“What is M. Sylvain Bonnel dying of?” she asked 
Johanna. 

“Lung trouble. One can scarcely realize it. To 
think of a strong fellow like him to have just melted 
away like that, yes, actually melted away! Had 
he been a game-keeper like his father, he would have 
good lungs; but transformed to a gentleman, that’s' 
what he gets! Yes, my brother has done him a fine 
service.” 

Edith’s brow contracted, but she continued to walk 
rapidly without taking part in the conversation. 

“But, my dear cousin, your brother has made some- 
body of him,” observed Fernande. 

“Whom we shall bury within a fortnight,” inter- 
rupted Johanna. 

“But who will have known fame.” 

“With poetry, in our days? In Africa, at Lag- 
houat, as on the day he saved Rochemaure, that 
might be. But with verses!” exclaimed Johanna dis- 
dainfully. 

“His ‘Chants du Coeur ’ is a jewel,” insisted Fer- 
nande. 

“So is the plow when one knows how to drive it. 
You see, my dear, my brother was impregnated with 
every quality in the world, but unfortunately he was 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


35 


wanting in practical sense. How often I told him so, 
but he merely laughed. He never could do enough 
for Bonnel and Sylvain. But the idea of pushing this 
boy to literature, the profession of good-for-nothings! 
For after all, what does one gain by it? Nothing but 
pleurisy! It was the same about Edith.” 

“About Edith?” 

“He never would consent to let me make a protest- 
ant of her.” 

“But she was born a catholic.” 

“What of it? Am I not a protestant? When 
Edith has anything to say, would it not be more nat- 
ural to tell me than to go and relate it to the Abbe 
Desnoux? Do you consider that proper? To kneel 
before a man?” 

“A priest.” 

“There are not three sexes. That is beyond my 
comprehension.” 

“But, my dear cousin — ” 

“Oh, I submit to it, only it’s beyond me.” 

The path now ran along a ravine covered with 
rushes and surrounded by gigantic rocks encased in 
moss. Enormous beech-trees shaded the path with 
their interwoven branches and added grandeur to this 
wild and magnificent scenery. This was an advan- 
tageous spot in the chase of the wild boar, for from 
whatever direction it came from the forest, it was 
always shot there. Two hundred paces further on 
was the cottage of Bonnel, the game-keeper. They 


36 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


found the old man at the door talking to the physi- 
cian while holding the bridle of his horse. 

“I am delighted to see you,” said the man of sci- 
ence; “I was just going to Fresnois. There is a young 
man in here with whom I can do nothing without 
your aid. As to Bonnel, you must lecture him. His 
son must not see him looking so distressed.” 

The bridle trembled in the old game-keeper’s 
fingers. His eyes were fixed to the ground, and he 
struggled in vain to choke down the sobs that shook 
his frame. 

“My grief will tell him nothing,” he said slowly. 
“If I weep it is because he will not try to recover.” 

“Why?” asked Edith. 

“He refuses all care,” replied Bonnel, raising his 
despairing glance to the beautiful girl, as if she were 
a good fairy and she alone could save him. 

“A strong medicament would save him from imme- 
diate danger,” added the doctor, “then we might 
send him to Algeria for the rest of the winter.” 

Mademoiselle de Rochemaure directed her steps 
toward the door, but Bonnel gave an involuntary 
start of terror. 

“Why! What is it, Bonnel? Are you afraid to see 
me enter?” 

“Of course not,” cried Johanna. “Your son must 
be mad, Bonnel! — Indeed my brother displayed good 
judgment in encouraging him to be a poet. But 
come 1 , be reasonable; we shall nurse him by force.” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


37 


In the meantime, Edith had approached the pa- 
tient. He was lying motionless, his eyes closed, his 
features as if molded in wax, the lividity relieved only 
by two feverish spots on the cheeks, and although 
his brow was bathed in perspiration, his teeth chat- 
tered, at intervals, as if with cold. 

“He is lost, my dear,” discreetly whispered Johanna 
in Fernande’s ear. 

“A charming head! What a pity,” replied Mad- 
emoiselle Mac-Oney. 

“My brother,” said Edith softly as she bent over 
the bed. 

The dying man did not hear; for he remained mo- 
tionless as a corpse. 

“Sylvain!” cried Edith in alarm. 

That voice, uttering his name, drew him from his 
torpor. A convulsive shudder almost raised him from 
the pillow, his eyes opened and he clasped his hands 
as if in entreaty. 

“You refuse to take medicine, Sylvain?” she re- 
sumed. “You must promise to obey me. And if you 
give me your word, I know you will not break it. 
Will you promise?” 

“Yes,” he whispered, and his eyes again closed. 

' When they returned to Fresnois, the ladies were 
told that M. Gaulier was awaiting them. They 
found him in the drawing-room warming himself in 
front of the fire-place. Although he had told Anderic 
he would write, the prudent notary had thought it 
better to explain the facts himself. 


38 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


Whatever might be his interest in the count, he 
felt an equal affection for Edith, and he could not 
shake off a secret apprehension at the thought of see- 
ing her marry a man systematically resolved to make 
a bad husband. His conscience protested. Beside, 
the aim being attained, since Anderic renounced 
celibacy, it was not absolutely indispensable to make 
Edith the victim. Many would willingly take her 
place at the altar of sacrifice, and he would not be 
troubled by a stranger’s fate. But to condemn 
Mademoiselle de Rochemaure to such a life was pure 
barbarism. 

Knowing Johanna’s fixed ideas on the subject, he 
hoped that Edith, seeing the want of enthusiasm in 
M. de Nivron, would refuse the doubtful venture. 
He was consequently almost brutal in his announce- 
ment, concealing the truth in nothing. He made the 
proposal as if it were a bargain, in which so much 
was given for a certain sum of money, with the stipu- 
lation that the adverse part should be duly warned. 

“My dear friend,” said Johanna, “we expected this.” 

“Believe me, I am sincerely grieved — ” began the 
notary, but he was cut short by Johanna. 

“Why should you be?” she said. “The young man 
shows his straightforwardness in not simulating false 
sentiments.” 

“But Anderic shows no scruples whatever.” 

“You mean to say that he counts on you to dis- 
courage us.” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


39 


“I suppose so.” 

“So much the worse for him! We are not at all 
discouraged.” 

“But you must consider that our charming Edith — ” 

“Bah! she will be none the less charming because 
Anderic is acting foolishly. He will soon get over 
that, and besides, all young married people end by 
worshiping each other.” 

“It might be better if they commenced by that. 
Anderic is headstrong, a good fellow I admit, but 
obstinate, a little dissipated, and not at all inclined 
to reform.” 

But the more M. Gaulier vilified M. de Nivron, 
the more the impressionable Johanna exalted him. 

“Here is a man we cannot accuse of hypocrisy, 
can we Fernande?” 

“Hypocrisy is sometimes politeness, my dear 
cousin.” 

“It may be good policy, but there is nothing I de- 
test so much. Besides, I know Anderic.” 

“One reason more,” broke in the notary. 

“To give him my niece? Certainly.” 

Edith was silent. His conversation, which was 
to decide her whole life, did not appear to interest her, 
yet her heart was beating tumultuously and her black 
eyes shone with a warm light as she gazed intently 
at the fire. She was debating within herself, now 
for, then against, Anderic. 

Gaulier was congratulating himself on Fernande’s 


40 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


presence, hoping that Johanna’s admiration would be 
counterbalanced by her cousin’s ironies. But Fer- 
nande rather affected anger. 

“M. de Nivron is indeed a man of our day; he car- 
ries his contempt for women to cynicism,” she said. 

“That is asserting a great deal,” protested Gaulier, 
who believed the present century less to blame than 
the different samples of womanhood whom the count 
had met and who had all left the same impression. 

“Edith is worth more than a miserable gambling 
debt,” resumed Fernande. “We are not yet reduced 
to that! Pouah! Let him marry Sarah Keissman.” 

“But, he would sooner die,” interrupted Johanna. 

“The noble boy! A bullet in his brain!” 

“Replaced by a Rochemaure. If it were me, 
cousin — ” 

“Nonsense! You don’t know what you are talking 
about. This marriage was to be, and it is. That’s 
the long and short of it. Is it not so, Edith?” 

“Yes, aunt,” replied the young girl simply. 

But as Gaulier continued to insist on the danger 
of illusions, she added: 

“I have few illusions, but a great deal of devotion.” 

The inmates of Fresnois slept little that night. 
Johanna felt triumphant to see her dreams enter the 
domain of reality, Mademoiselle de Rochemaure 
thought of the coming lover — so long awaited! — and 
Fernande, agitated by this projected marriage, felt 
the wound inflicted by Jamidoff bleeding anew. Syl- 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


41 


vain Bonnel also tossed restlessly on his burning pil- 
lows and again saw the apparition of the morning. 
He had submitted himself and taken the medicine 
prescribed, and with the physical relief came a great 
moral peace. Edith’s voice, which still resounded 
through his ears, lulled him into a strange delirium. 
In obedience to her, he was ascending a path 
guarded by monsters and overrun by intoxicating 
flowers, the thorns of which tore their flesh. But 
Edith pushed straight onward until she reached the 
summit where she stood, pale and bathed in tears, 
pointing to a door opening into infinity. She com- 
manded him to cross beyond it, that he might find 
peace, and as he entered he felt the cold sensation of 
azure waves enveloping and dragging him away, 
while she remained alone, standing motionless in the 
path they had ascended together. 

Notwithstanding Gaulier’s communication, several 
days glided by and still M. de Nivron did not appear. 
Johanna was perplexed. What could it mean when 
he should have been at Edith’s feet within twentv- 
four hours! 

“What do you make of it?” she asked Fernande. 

“It is not surprising since he comes against his will.” 

“Ah! if he only comes,” she said with a sigh. “I 
am afraid he has changed his mind.” 

“That would be his ruin. He certainly deserves 
to marry Sarah Keissman.” 

“The daughter of a — ” 


42 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“A charming girl who loves him to distraction.” 

“Indeed?” 

“Himself or his title, which comes to the same 
thing.” 

“You seem well informed!” 

“We receive many people.” 

These conversations threw Johanna into deeper 
perplexities. She concluded that Anderic must 
have been entrapped, and what would then become 
of Edith! Mademoiselle de Rochemaure, however, 
showed less impatience exteriorly. She had grown 
familiar with waiting. Each day brought her to the 
game-keeper’s lodge, accompanied by Fernande and 
her faithful Danish dog, Faust. Sylvain welcomed 
these visits with rapture and gratitude. She brought 
him newspapers, reviews, talked of Algeria and his 
approaching voyage, fought down his objections, 
gave him wise and prudent advice, then extended a 
little hand he scarcely dared touch, and disappeared 
as she had come, with a smile on her lips. 

Being exceedingly skeptical in matters of unproduc- 
tive devotion, Fernande asked herself what motive 
incited Mademoiselle de Rochemaure in this regular 
wasting of herself. Although she observed the two 
young people closely and scrupulously she could dis- 
cover nothing suspicious in their actions. Edith 
acted toward Sylvain as a sister might toward a well- 
beloved brother. But what naivete! A violent pas- 
sion burnt near her, for her, and she did not even 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


43 


see it, although Sylvain betrayed himself incessantly. 
His every glance, gestures, abrupt silence, all in him 
was a direct avowal. A struggle was evidently going 
on within him; he was striving to control and repress 
his passion, to conceal the terrible secret that was 
surely consuming his life. He did not succeed well, 
however, for Fernande understood, although Edith 
remained blind, and a thousand leagues from such 
poetic flights, continuing to wade along in plain prose. 
Fernande would have gladly opened her eyes; but 
a secret instinct prompted her to be silent. No one 
knows what a love romance may bring forth, even 
though the hero be determined to die with sealed 
lips! If Edith knew, she might cease to come to the 
Ravin, and these visits offered one advantage un- 
doubtedly. M. de Nivron’s disposition, already 
so little enthusiastic, might find the means of becom- 
ing altogether refractory. This marriage irritated 
Fernande and the possibility of a rupture filled her 
with delight. 

The sudden arrival of Anderic, however, threw con- 
fusion in her mind. On their return from the Ravin 
one day, the two young girls found him in the draw- 
ing-room with Johanna, engaged in a conversation 
that must have bored him immensely, if they judged 
by his countenance. As they entered, he arose with 
the best grace imaginable, but without precipitation 
or embarrassment, as if he were fulfilling a mere duty 
of politeness, and came toward Edith. 


44 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“ We are old friends changed into young fiances” 
he said as he took her hand and raised the trembling 
fingers to his lips. 

“Very old friends, and a happy fiancee, ” replied 
Edith simply. 

Johanna now hastened to resume the praises of her 
beloved niece, which the entrance of the two young 
girls had interrupted. To her, the quickest way to 
open people’s eyes was to punch them out, and break 
their heads to extirpate false ideas. But Edith 
stopped her flow of language by presenting Fernande. 

Anderic made a low bow before Mademoiselle de 
Mac-Oney, and that short space of time sufficed him, 
as a connoisseur, to take in all the details of her 
physical qualities. He admired the * good taste of 
Prince Jamidoff, whose adventure was celebrated. 
Speaking eyes, a bewitching figure, and a great deal 
of piquancy. Near Fernande, the perfect Edith re- 
mained absolutely insignificant. Thin, with a timid 
glance, the manners of a school-girl, at the most she 
had only beautiful hair, black as a raven’s wing, 
crowning her head like a diadem. As to the rest, 
peuh! — The other, on the contrary, without even 
a gesture, by her simple attitude, stirred a thousand 
thoughts within him. Fernande grasped the situa- 
tion and pursued her conquest by keeping up a brill- 
iant conversation and laughing noisily, while Edith, 
silent with happiness, listened to her aunt who was 
fixing the date of the marriage, declaring that it must 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


45 


take place at the end of January, six weeks at the 
very latest. 

The evening passed like a dream, and when Ande- 
ric, had taken his leave, Fernande fearing she had 
alarmed these two simple souls by her gay talk, ex- 
cused herself by alleging her desire to place every- 
body at ease. 

“The ice had to be broken,” she said, “but here- 
after, I shall be as still as a picture and as silent as 
Edith.” 

“Nonsense!” said Johanna. 

“But, my dear cousin, each must play her part. I 
am not going to marry M. de Nivron.” 

“One reason more why you should amuse him be- 
fore the wedding; Edith will do so after.” 

“Since you wish it, cousin.” 

“You will be doing us a favor.” 

At dawn, Edith glided out of the chateau, called 
her faithful Faust, and started in the direction of 
the Ravin. Happiness did not rob her of memory. 
One whom she loved as a brother was suffering and 
awaiting her, and nothing could make her forget. 
The weather was cold and she walked on rapidly en- 
veloped in dreams, and happy in the bright sunlight 
that accompanied her through the leafless forest. 
Things were becoming somewhat confused in her 
mind. The notary had frightened her a great deal 
on that memorable day, but Anderic’s welcome had re- 
assured her. He did not love her; she alone gave her- 


46 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


self entirely in this union, but she gave herself so 
wholly that she would end by winning him. He did 
not know that she had loved him always, besides, the 
awkward little girl of the past had remained in the 
past. In those days he would not have kissed her 
hand — with what sweetness! — But then, if he really 
only married her as a means of enriching himself! 
She quickly drove this thought away, however, and 
when she reached the game-keeper’s lodge her face 
beamed with happiness. 

Sylvain was seated before the fire, while his father 
and the steward, Prat, stood near, engaged in an ani- 
mated conversation. Bonnel’s eyes were fixed on 
his son’s face, which grew more and more livid as 
Prat went on with his babbling. 

“M. Gaulier told me all about it,” he was saying, 
“Old servants like us are like members of the family; 
they have no secrets for us. Mademoiselle is to 
marry Monsieur le Comte.” 

Edith’s entrance at this moment cut short the con- 
versation. 

“Good morning!” said the young girl in her sweet, 
musical voice. “I have come early, because I am in 
a hurry to tell you something, Sylvain.” 

The steward bowed respectfully and went out, ac- 
companied by Bonnel, leaving Edith and Sylvain 
alone. The young man attempted to arise, but his 
strength failed him and he sank back in his chair. 

“Heavens! What has happened since yesterday?” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


47 


cried Edith, clasping his hands. “You are feverish, 
and I am sure you have been imprudent! You cer- 
tainly have no wish to grieve me when I am so happy.” 

“Are you happy, at least?” 

“With all my soul.” 

“Thank God!” 

“I wanted to tell you before anyone else.” 

“Thank you for the thought,” he replied with an 
involuntary shudder. “You are to marry the Comte 
de Nivron?” 

“Yes. You already knew it.” 

“Prat was telling us — ” 

“What! he cannot have told you — ” she stopped 
abruptly and her face clouded. “Do you remember 
your first verses, Sylvain?” she resumed after a mo- 
ment’s silence. “They are still engraved on my heart. 
You spoke of unrequited love, of silent sacrifices and 
eternal fidelity. It was perhaps your own story; you 
must have met so many beautiful women in Paris; but 
what you do not know is, that it is also mine. I could 
have sworn all my little secrets were guessed by you. 
This is why I called you my poet. You sustained me, 
unknowingly; you explained and taught me that hap- 
piness, when we love, is made up exclusively of the 
happiness of the one we love. And that encouraged 
me. Perhaps, some day, I shall again draw from 
your works the strength necessary to meet the trials 
of life.” 

“You told me you were happy a moment ago.” 


48 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“Because I am sure of my own love,” she said, 
then added in a lower tone, “but I want the love of 
another.” 

“He does not love you then?” 

“Not yet, at least.” 

She arose with a sigh and walked slowly to the 
window. Faust was whining outside and she opened 
the door. While the shivering animal ran to the fire- 
side, she saw the game-keeper returning toward the 
house; she beckoned him to come in as she wished to 
speak to him. Then closing the door, she walked 
straight to Sylvain and placed a hand on his shoul- 
der. 

“I want you to leave for Algeria; the physician 
orders it,” she said in a tone of mingled entreaty and 
command. 

Bonnel was now looking at them — she, standing 
before the hearth, full of life and grace, he, his Syl- 
vain, reclining in his chair, consumed by suffering. 

“Bonnel! would you like to go to Africa?” she said 
turning her face toward him. 

“Certainly, mademoiselle,” he replied. 

“I am glad to hear it, for I want you to go.” 

“Why?” 

“To buy me a pair of Arabian horses — The best 
you can find — You are the only one who can choose 
them for me — Sylvain will accompany you; he has 
promised. Is it not so ‘my poet’? In that country, 
which I scarcely remember, although we have played 



“ He took her hand and raised the trembling fingers 
to his lips.’ — (p. 44.) 












A BROKEN CHAIN 


49 


there together, your muse will gain warm and pure 
pathos, like her proud sun. Adieu!” 

She was already far away with her dog Faust, 
when the game-keeper, bronzed by many a battle, 
knelt beside his son, and laying his head on the ema- 
ciated chest, cried: 

“Ah! my child! — mypoorchild! — Youmayweep 
now! We are alone.” 

And Sylvain wept. 


CHAPTER III 


Anderic had come to Viellefort. with the certainty of 
being bored to death, but the dreariness of an enforced 
courtship was greatly lessened by the curiosity inspired 
in him by Mademoiselle de Mac-Oney. Had it not 
been for her presence at the chateau, he might have 
succumbed to the charms of Edith. He possessed 
the eye of an artist and admired her pure, delicate 
features and supreme distinction. But Johanna, by 
her exaggerated praises, and Edith through her re- 
serve, unconsciously became Fernande’s accomplices. 
The latter, while leaving the field open to researches 
and discoveries, did not exercise perpetual control 
over the charms which nature or Providence had be- 
stowed upon her. Johanna, on the contrary, became 
tyrannical with the incessant praises of her niece. 
She went into raptures on the slightest provocation, 
told impossible stories of Edith’s love and devotion, 
of her sufferings in the past ten years, of her conse- 
cration to a fugitive idol, while the young girl herself 
spoke not a word of all this, keeping her lips obsti- 
nately closed. 

In this overwhelming zeal, Nivron saw only the 
ruse of an old maid, a puerile attempt to enkindle a 
flame where the first spark was wanting. He be- 
50 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


Si 


lieved that Edith, like himself, was making a marriage 
de convencince, and it was very bad taste — almost 
perfidious, he thought, to deny the object. This 
added to the secret resentment he already felt in be- 
ing forced to marry. He tried to hide his repugnance 
as much as possible, however, but could not deceive 
Fernande. She was not blind to the condition of 
affairs, and rejoiced in secret, not neglecting in the 
meantime to throw pepper on the wound whenever 
they were left alone. Anderic never wavered, but he 
often came very near seizing the bewitching creature 
in his arms and crushing her to his breast. Guessing 
his thoughts, she would raise her tantalizing chin in 
a peal of laughter and display a form that defied the 
crushing. These frequently renewed scenes com- 
pletely subjugated M. de Nivron, and an intimacy, 
approved by Edith and Johanna, was soon established 
between them. Although the tete-a-tetes were fre- 
quent, they, were never long, however, for Johanna 
was always sure to interrupt them with her insup- 
portable bustling and babbling. Edith was less of a 
restraint on them, even when near. Words and 
phrases of double meaning flew about her unnoticed; 
the serene, intelligent young girl did not understand 
them; her own frank nature held her aloof from the 
artful perfidies of the salon. No cloud can imprint 
its shadow on pure stars. Besides, Anderic’s pres- 
ence paralyzed her; her heart beat so violently that 
it deprived her of the power of speech. Happiness 


52 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


has its oppressions. Edith had lived at Fresnois since 
her infancy, and sports, theaters, high-life, and all 
Anderic’s idle talk was a strange world to her from 
which she shrank as much from timidity as from 
modesty. But Fernande had her repertoire on the 
tips of her fingers, and neither timidity nor modesty 
were her predominating qualities. She was an antag- 
onist worthy of him; prompt in retort, bold in attack, 
always on the alert. It was but natural that his 
whole attention should be attracted by such seductive 
bait. She maneuvered like an expert tactician, and 
Anderic, who at first had thought her amusing, ended 
by finding her adorable. 

Nevertheless, the absolute conquest of this blase 
young man was longer than she had expected. Dur- 
ing these skirmishes, skillful ruses, capitulations of 
a minute, followed by interminable accesses of virtue, 
time was passing away. It was only a few days be- 
fore the date set for the wedding that Fernande ac- 
quired the certainty of triumph, and even then she 
was forced to admit that he had no intention of 
breaking off with Edith. She now assumed a pro- 
found sadness, skillfully enveloping herself in gloom 
as if in a new toilet. Certain women have a way of 
wearing mourning that would damn a saint. Anderic 
who was but a mediocre saint, felt a recrudescence of 
ardor for his suffering victim and a violent anger 
against Edith. He cursed the living barrier that sep- 
arated them. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


53 


It was impossible to break his word, but it was 
not forbidden to hate. And he hated. All that did 
not concern Fernande irritated him, from Edith’s 
morning visits to the church to her evening visits to 
the poor of the village; her meditative silence, as well 
as her long conversations with the abbe. 

“She is so pious!” insinuated Fernande. 

“What a pity she should marry a miscreant,” he 
retorted. 

“Bah! we have prayers for the conversion of sin- 
ners. You will be converted.” 

“Never.” 

“Oh, yes. And what an excellent thing it will be.” 

“Ah! I know what would be an excellent thing.” 

“Hush!” 

On the terrace, in the park, or in the drawing-room 
they were always side by side, while Edith stood near 
and dreamed of those pure joys, not daring to show 

their absorbing intensity. As the days glided by, 

Fernande, restless and anxious, saw the necessity of 
decisive action. She would often press her hand to 
her heart as if devoured by an internal fire or to still 
the throbbings of a secret wound, and when left 
alone for a moment with Anderic, she would fix her 
impassible gaze on him in silent interrogation. Then, 
little by little, her glance lighted up, irradiating 

promises, then became dimmed under a veil of tears. 
Lost paradises are worth regrets. But Fernande 

foolishly pushed things to the tragic and paid dearly 


54 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


for it. It was on the eve of the day the marriage 
contract was to be signed, and she was alone in the 
drawing-room with Anderic. Suddenly she arose, 
her brows contracted, her lips curled disdainfully, 
and drawing a pretty jeweled dagger from her bosom 
— a present from Jamidoff who had besought her to 
make use of it if he ever deceived her — placed it 
against his heart. 

“You shall belong to none but me!” she hissed 
between her clinched teeth. 

Dazzled by her audacity, blinded by his passion 
and almost grateful for the crime, he opened his 
arms to her. 

“So be it, death, but together,” he murmured. 

His arms closed, he no longer reasoned, he was in 
a delirium. At this moment a familiar step was 
heard coming toward the drawing-room and abruptly 
recalled Anderic to the reality. It was Johanna as 
usual, and as she appeared in the doorway, he reso- 
lutely pushed Fernande from him. The latter, not 
knowing what else to do, fell back fainting. 

“Mercy on us!” cried the cousin slapping her palms 
and shaking her by the shoulders. “What is it, 
child!— But why don’t you call? You stand there 
like a statue,” she said turning to Anderic. “Don’t 
you see she has fainted? Call Edith — or rather watch 
her while I run for my salts.” 

As Johanna left the room, Fernande heaved a long 
sigh. Nivron approached and bent over her. But, as 



“ His arms closed, he no longer reasoned, he was in a 
delirium. ” — (p. 54.) 










































































































A BROKEN CHAIN 


55 


if galvanized by the contact, she bounded to her feet. 

“Don’t touch me, don’t touch me!” she exclaimed. 

Her voice was beseeching, full of tears, the break- 
ing of a virtue of granite metamorphosed into fragile 
crystal. Then, as is usually proper in such circum- 
stances, indignation took the ascendency. 

“We are both infamous wretches!” cried Mademoi- 
selle de Mac-Oney superbly. 

“Fernande!” 

“Yes, infamous, since we are still living.” 

“We were about to die, we had sworn it, and I 
wish it were over, I love you so.” 

“You? — you? — ha! ha!” and a wild laugh, like a 
shower of pearls, resounded through the room. “Be- 
sides, what does that prove? I love you also. And 
that is precisely why we are wretches.” Seizing his 
hand she placed it on her palpitating breast. “Feel!” 
she continued, “it beats and throbs for you. Why? 
How? I know not. It is fatality! I did not search 
for you, I did not know you, and I was happy. And 
now! — Ah! heavens! But I must die at one blow, 
for it is too terrible to die by inches. What I endure 
here is intolerable. Since your coming, I have not 
slept. It is a torture of each hour, an agony of each 
minute, the hatred of others, a horror of myself. This 
house weighs on me; existence is a burden. I have 
but one longing: to end it all as soon as possible — ” 

She was interrupted by Johanna’s entrance betray- 
ing a whole pharmacopia. 


56 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“Take your vials away, cousin, ” said the young girl. 
“They can do nothing for me; I have ceased to 
suffer. ” 

And Mademoiselle de Mac-Oney withdrew with 
the stately step of innocent victims, impassible before 
the knife of the executioner. 

Johanna understood that the illness was over, but 
Anderic trembled in every limb, for he understood 
quite another thing. It was the supreme cry that 
had been hurled before him, the cry of despair and 
adieu! Could it be possible? What would he do? 
What aid could he implore? He suddenly found 
himself involved in a dramatic scene and it certainly 
flattered his vanity, but not used to lugubrious sto- 
ries, he was losing his senses. 

“Follow her, mademoiselle,” he implored. 

“Why?” 

“She is in such a state — I fear — ” 

“Pshaw! It is quite insignificant, my friend.” 

“On the contrary, mademoiselle, I assure you, 
you should not leave her. Believe me! I implore, 
you — ” At this moment he caught sight of a shining 
object on the floor near the divan where Fernande 
had fainted. He ran and picked it up — it was 
Jamidoff’s dagger. What happiness! it was not in 
her hands! 

“Here, look!” he cried with the triumphant air of 
a Red-skin discovering a trace. 

“Her paper-cutter. Well, what of it?” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


57 


“Oh! the frightful, prosaic old maid! She would 
not budge; she would not rejoin the suffering girl who 
might be committing an irreparable act. And while 
she was revolving the darkest projects, while every- 
thing was being shattered in this exquisite being, even 
to the strong power of will and reason, the other, 
the one to whom an odious fate bound him forever, 
pointed out happiness to him, at the moment when 
it was escaping his grasp forever. Ah, odious irony! 
the other, Edith, his fiancee, tranquil, cold and cor- 
rect, was wandering through the forest in quest of 
ragged children, infirm old men, or that Abbe Des- 
noux, whom Johanna herself declared insipid. Decid- 
edly, Fernande was not the woman of his dreams, 
since his dreams suppressed woman, but the only 
creature who could make marriage endurable. 

At dinner, Mademoiselle de Mac-Oney sent word 
that she could not leave her room, and Anderic’s 
uneasiness drove him almost beyond the bounds of 
prudence and politeness. 

“Indeed,” grumbled Johanna impatiently, when 
Edith expressed some anxiety concerning her friend, 
“indeed it is nothing but vapors — nothing to make 
a fuss about. She will be herself again to-morrow.” 

“But, mademoiselle, you said this afternoon — ” 

“What did I say?” 

“That it was an insignificant illness.” 

“And I maintain it. You insist on it being serious.” 

“Oh, but — if — -” he stammered. 


58 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“M. de Nivron is right,” observed Edith. Fer- 
nande has always been as strong — ” 

“As a tree!” interrupted Johanna. 

“What happened is therefore not natural.” 

Edith spoke more truly than she imagined. Noth- 
ing natural existed in Fernande’s case, except the 
desire to capture Anderic. But when the latter 
joined his betrothed in urging that a message be sent 
to M. Gaulier and the contract delayed, an exclama- 
tion from the aunt brought him back to his senses. 

“Delay the contract! are you mad?” she cried. “We 
shall have from one to two hundred guests here 
to-morrow.” 

“Here, aunt?” 

“Certainly! you don’t expect they will be at M. 
de Nivron’s house, do you?” 

“Our marriage was to be celebrated with the 
strictest privacy,” protested Edith. 

“The marriage, yes, because to me, papist 
churches — there, there, you heretic, don’t be angry. 
But I promised to make up for it on the evening of 
the contract. Now, do you want my frank opinion? 
Fernande has nothing but vapors, and if you insist, 
I will add that there is nothing whatever the matter 
with her. I know something of medicine, and I have 
turned, sounded, and examined her on all sides. I 
found not a trace of fever; she is as fresh as a rose. 
What more do you want?” 

In spite of this diagnosis, however, and the suppli- 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


59 


cations of her friends, Fernande left the next day for 
Paris, leaving her maid to deliver a letter to M. de 
Nivron. 

While the train was carrying her away at full 
speed, Anderic was impatiently listening to the ex- 
planations of M. Gaulier who had reached Viellefort 
early that morning. The notary was rendering an 
account of his administration, commenting on the 
contract, and paraphrasing the figures. Anderic 
heard not a single word; he had passed an atrocious 
night, and felt an almost irresistible desire to seize 
those papers, crush them under foot, to break off 
with the Rochemaures and fly with Fernande. All 
night this thought had haunted him; it still tormented 
him, became more and more tenacious as the day ad- 
vanced. Now as the hour approached, and he must soon 
make his appearance at Fresnois, his nervous anxiety 
almost reached a paroxysm. Before he signed any- 
thing he must at least see Fernande. She would 
decide his fate. One word from her lips and Edith 
would be told the truth. 

A messenger bearing two letters was announced. 

“From Mademoiselle de Rochemaure,” said the 
boy. 

“Go to the devil !” cried Anderic, angrily seizing the 
letters; he threw them into the fire without as much 
as a glance. 

“Is that the way you read your correspondence ?” 
asked the notary as the crestfallen messenger disap- 
peared. 


6o 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“You cannot imagine how that old maid torments 
me,” replied the count. “Every morning brings me 
letters from her. She seems to fear that I shall run 
away, and has me watched by her servants. It is too 
exasperating, I tell you. I am bored by her prose at 
Viellefort and her eternal babbling at Fresnois. 
Even you, my friend, could not endure it. Ah! 
believe me, if I had known her as I do now, I should 
never have consented to marry her niece. She will 
break off the marriage by wearying my patience.” 

“It would be rather difficult at this point,” observed 
the notary. 

“Difficult? Do you want to see it done?” 

“There, there — be patient a few days longer. In 
a few days Johanna will be left behind and the Com- 
tesse de Nivrcn will obtain her absolution.” 

“The Comtesse de — You give her great credit?” 

“What! — you are speaking of your fiancee?” 

“Precisely.” 

“And after weeks spent near her, you question me 
as to her merits! You should never have boasted of 
your knowledge of women. I know Edith possesses 
all virtues.” 

“Then enlighten me on one side of her nature. 
Is she proud?” 

“Like all noble souls.” 

“And vindictive?” 

“Not at all. I cannot say as much for Johanna, 
however. She never forgives. But as you are not 
to marry her, but Edith — ” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


6l 


“Yes, yes, that is true. Let us start, my friend.” 

When they reached Fresnois, the servants were giv- 
ing the last touches to the decorations; Johanna was 
bustling through the rooms, and Edith, notwithstand- 
ing the cold, was walking on the terrace bareheaded, 
with her dog Faust. 

“One could hardly call her frolicsome!” whispered 
Anderic to the notary. 

“You would perhaps like to have her throw her 
arms around your neck,” replied Gaulier. 

Edith turned to meet them as they came near and 
placed her forehead within reach of the old man’s 
lips. 

“How melancholy you seem for such a day,” he 
said as he kissed her. 

“I am, indeed, very much grieved. Fernande is 
gone,” she replied. 

“Gone!” gasped Anderic. 

The exclamation was too much in sympathy with 
her own grief for Edith to remark its strange tone. 
But the shrewd notary, already placed on his guard 
by Anderic’s words that morning, began to under- 
stand. 

Edith ran in to announce their arrival to her aunt 
and the two men were left alone. Anderic could 
not utter a word. A thousand contradictory thoughts 
struggled through his mind. Gone! Fernande was 
gone, without seeing him, without one word — she 
did not love him, since she abandoned him. But no! 
she did love him. 


62 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


Had she not proved it on the previous day when 
she was willing to die — Nevertheless, she had not 
killed herself. Her dea'th would have surprised him 
less than her departure. She had chosen between 
two extremes and preferred flight to suicide. But 
why? Perhaps with the secret hope that they might 
meet some day. Ah! to hold her once more palpitat- 
ing against his breast, as he had yesterday. When 
would that moment come? — Why not now? It only 
required an effort of the will. Would she hesitate 
in h^s place? Was he hesitating? Yes, through 
respect for Fernande herself. She had taken flight 
that she might not witness the marriage — that he 
might have the strength to accomplish the sacrifice 
and remain a man of honor. Had she remained, he 
would not have had the courage to keep his word. 
She understood him, and sacrified herself, refusing 
complicity in felony. Would he shrink back from the 
trial when she was so strong? as she had broken her 
heart, so he would break down his pride. It was only 
through pride of cast, of tradition that he persisted in 
marrying Edith. Having made a promise, it was 
through his pride as a gentleman that he wished to 
fulfill it. But after all, what mattered the world’s 
opinion and social contracts? They were only so 
many stupid prejudices. His loyalty? None could 
question it. Under the existing circumstances, it com- 
manded him not to marry Edith. To marry without 
love was passable, but to give hatred with his name, 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


63 


with a mean object, through calculation, to obtain 
riches — what casuist would dare advise such an act? 

“Anderic, will you allow me to give you one word 
of advice?” asked his companion. 

The notary’s voice drew him from his reverie. 
He had forgotten that he was not alone, and feared 
the shrewd old man might guess his thoughts. 

“Advice? As you please. What is it?” 

“You should be married to-morrow.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you are on the point of committing a 
piece of folly.” 

“It were better then that it should precede the — 
ceremony ” 

“To prevent it.” 

“Perhaps.” 

“Have you changed your mind? 

“Have I said so?”” 

“Almost. For, in not protesting against the pos- 
sibility of the folly I speak of, you admit that you 
care little for this marriage.” 

“You are mistaken.” 

“And you would break off, without scruples.” 

“True, I do not bring much enthusiasm in the 
affair.” 

“Through it you have brought one hundred and 
forty thousand frances to de Sainte-Avene. One 
cannot have everything at the same time.” 

“You are harsh, my friend.” 


6 4 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“For fear you may be forgetful. We have made a 
bargain. I have done my share; do yours.” 

“It is a matter of business!” said the young man 
bitterly. 

“A matter of honor,” replied the old man severely. 

Night had fallen — a starless night. Carriages were 
rolling in fast, depositing the guests at the door and 
quickly disappearing in the darkness. The two 
friends walked on, arm in arm, unmindful of what was 
passing over there, overcome by the sudden irruption 
of a tempest in which one of them was in danger of 
being wrecked. 

“A matter of honor!” replied Gaulier, emphasizing 
each word. 

“When you kindly offered me a word of advice,” 
resumed Anderic in a low voice, “I was questioning 
myself on the subject.” 

“I am not in doubt as to your answer.” 

“And the answer I was making, or was about to 
make, is, that honor forbids me to marry Mademoiselle 
de Rochemaure, as she inspires me with sentiments 
quite in opposition to those with which I should be 
imbued. When we discussed my family affairs, 
nothing constrained me to fall in adoration before 
my betrothed. I retained my full independence of 
life and heart, seeing that without being a paragon of 
virtue, but also without being a monster of wicked- 
ness, I could enter into legitimate possession of my 
uncle’s wealth — which after all is mine — I wronged 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


65 


and deceived no one, and rendered myself a service. 
To-day, I still render myself a service, but I wrong 
someone, for I feel a deep antipathy, an incurable 
aversion toward this young girl — in a word, I hate 
her. Well, the least scrupulous honor — and it is not 
mine — could hardly believe it right to play such 
comedy.” 

“And you have waited until this evening to make 
me such confidences?” said the notary in a sarcastic 
tone. 

“There are things we cannot write.” 

“Not to a friend!” 

“You are also Edith’s friend.” 

“One reason more. I could judge better than an- 
other what was right for both. But no, even yester- 
day you were comfortable here; this evening, on the 
contrary — ” 

“I find it uncomfortable, and I am going.” 

“By what right, since she has gone without you?” 
said the notary, burning his vessels, for he was be- 
ginning to tremble seriously. “There, let us reason,” 
he continued in a voice that ill-concealed his anxieties 
while he pressed Anderic’s arm to show him that his 
affection was still the same, although put to a severe 
test. “What signifies this figure of Mademoiselle de 
Mac-Oney? It is this or I am much mistaken: ‘You 
cannot break your word; I go that you may do your 
duty.’” 

5 


7 ° 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


childhood, before she was left an orphan — those 
days when her mother rocked her on her knees and 
pressed her to her heart. Oh! those distant days, at 
most forgotten, yet always present! Those pure lost 
affections which left her so poor! Would she not 
find the treasure again? would she not again find ten- 
derness in this cold, silent companion whom she wor- 
shiped? A look from him would drive away those 
strange terrors, a pressure of the hand reanimate 
her. She needed his support, for she was weak; his 
affection, for she was a coward; she needed his gen- 
tleness, for she was so small, and, near him, so far 
from him! 

But Anderic was not even thinking of her. A face 
haunted him, filling him with bitter regrets — the 
regrets of a future sealed without remission, through 
his own fault, through a miserable scruple of con- 
science. The only woman he could ever love was 
escaping him. After a struggle of four years he had 
stupidly given in to the whim of an old man — fallen 
into the net spread by an old maid. The scoffer, the 
skeptic was at the mercy of an obstinate uncle and a 
foolish old aunt. A ridiculous will, an absurd Johanna, 
two hours of ill-luck at baccarat had sufficed to rivet 
the chain of a galley-slave to his feet. Though forced 
through circumstances to bend, he nevertheless came 
out of the whole, with his honor as a gentleman un- 
blemished, as he proudly said to himself, and this 
testimony of personal satisfaction softened him some- 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


71 


what. He was not wanting in a certain generosity 
of soul, and he resolved to make the best of his un- 
happy lot. He therefore addressed a few kind words 
to the Comtesse de Nivron. This was a ray of sun- 
shine to Edith. He then diminished the space that 
separated them, paid her a few little attentions, got 
off at the stations to buy flowers and bonbons, and 
thanks to his perfect education, succeeded admirably 
in playing the role of a devoted husband,. 

“Are you cold, my dear?” he asked. 

“No, monsieur.” 

“Are you not tired?” 

“No, monsieur.” 

“My name is Anderic,” he suggested smiling. 

“I know it,” she replied. 

“Then, pray be less ceremonious.” 

But the more zealously he tried to break the ice, 
the more timidity Edith experienced. The ray of 
sunhsine shone but for an instant. She felt that he 
was only polite to her as^he might be to any other 
woman. Besides, was she not aware that his heart 
was not in this marriage? 

Edith spent her whole time on deck during the pas- 
sage to Africa. The waves assumed voices; the im- 
mensity spoke to her. On this infinite space, filled 
with tumult and death, in which melted the heavens, 
her expanded thoughts ascended. As in these depths 
her life concealed storms, and alas! they were near 
tempests; but over there, toward the luminous hori- 
zon, the abyss became azure once more. 


72 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


After all, she should have been happy. Heaven 
had made a reality of her earliest dreams. Anderic 
was her husband. When proposing for her hand, he 
had not deceived her. He had married her without 
love because forced to it — still he had married her. 
What more could she wish? To conquer his preju- 
dices? that must be the work of time. Did she be - 
lieve herself a superior being, to imagine that it 
sufficed to give herself that he might surrender his 
heart? Moreover, what tactics had she employed? 
Where were her arms? Did she even know the 
ground of battle? Married to a sworn enemy of 
marriage, she annoyed him in turn by her sadness, 
her fears, and accesses of timidity. Was this the 
way to inspire him with sentiments of less hostility? 

Edith emerged from these reflections a transformed 
being — in appearance. She was gay, laughing like a 
child, clapping her hands with delight as they caught 
sight of Algeria, going into raptures over the houses, 
perched like white goats on the back of the Kasbah, 
and in fact, admiring everything with the zest of a 
happy bride. When they had landed, she visited the 
shops from Bab-el-Oued to Bab-Azoun, inhaling the 
perfumed air, always ready, never tired, piquant in 
her European costume, or superb in Moorish dress, 
when only her dazzling dark eyes were seen between 
the fringes of the veil. Her enthusiasm might have 
won Anderic, if only he had remarked the metamorpho- 
sis. He merely admitted that a traveling companion 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


73 


was not after all disagreeable; it had its good sides. 

They met Sainte-Avene on the Government place, 
a few days after their arrival, and he presented them 
right and left, introduced Anderic to the club, and, 
as Edith left him perfectly free, he was soon enjoying 
himself as in his bachelor days. He was much 
amused by Sainte-Avene, who was evidently enamored 
of the countess. His loving glances, discreet sighs — 
pushed to indiscretion — caused him many a merry 
laugh. How ridiculous men are! He had never 
studied them from that point of view. 

“Sainte-Avene is quite in love with you,” he ob- 
served to Edith. 

“Do you think so?” she asked: 

“If I think so! I should have to be blind — ” 

“I thought so too — but as he is my first admirer, I 
was not quite sure.” 

As their circle of friends became wider, the Com- 
tesse de Nivron’s triumphs increased. If Sainte- 
Avene was the first, he was certainly not the only 
one. The young woman’s drawing-room was always 
filled with admirers. The lord and master rarely in- 
convenienced them with his presence. 

Sainte-Avene was no longer obliged to pilot Anderic 
amongst “Arabian virtues,” and devoted himself ex- 
clusively to the comtesse. He organized innumera- 
ble excursions along the sea, to the green orange 
groves of Blidah, the mountains or half-way to Me- 
deah. In the evening they reassembled on the ter- 


74 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


race, chatted, laughed, and danced, while Anderic 
found pleasures elsewhere. He soon wearied of “ Ara- 
bian virtues,” however, and one afternoon as he lay 
stretched on a mat, voluptuously smoking his houka, 
he broached the subject of departure. 

“My dear,” he said between two puffs of smoke, 
“what would you say to an excursion in Kabylie?” 

“To the Djurjura?” 

“If those heights do not frighten you.” 

“I played there when I was a child.” 

“What do you say, then?” 

“I say — that it is too far for Monsieur de Sainte- 
Avene.” 

“Ah! ah! does he interest you so much?” 

“Since you have told me that I owe him the pleas- 
ure of being your wife.” 

“It is certain that without him — However, you 
must not let your gratitude carry you too far in the 
clouds; they might be clouds of dust, like those through 
which I believe I saw you the other day, in the direc- 
tion of Coleah.” 

Her heart beat. He watched her; could he be jeal- 
ous? 

“You need have no fears,” she said. 

“Shall I admit it? I have none.” 

No, he was not jealous. He was still absolutely 
indifferent. 

“Then,” he resumed, “if you have no other objec- 
tions — ” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


75 


“ Where shall we go first?” she interrupted. 

“Have you any preference?” 

“Yes. I have not heard of Sylvain Bonnel for a 
long time. The Abbe Desnoux believed him at Bli- 
dah, but M. de Sainte-Avene assures me he met him 
at Dellys, and — ” 

Anderic, his eyes blissfully closed in a cloud of 
smoke, interrupted her. 

“You possess a particular affection for Sylvain?” 

“The affection of a sister. We spent ten years of 
our childhood together. He saved my father’s life.” 

The comte inclined his head as a sign of approba- 
tion. 

“I know the story perfectly well,” he said. “It 
was my uncle’s great hobby. An ambuscade, was it 
not? near Laghouat at the Rocher-de-Sel. Sylvain, 
a mere child, held a party of Arabs in check for two 
hours, while Sergeant Bonnel carried away his cap- 
tain, M. de Rochemaure, who was riddled with 
shots, and rejoined the column with his precious bur- 
den on his shoulders.” 

Edith, her pupils dilated, listened standing, proud, 
for her friends, of the involuntary shade of respect 
this scoffer could not help imparting to this short re- 
cital. 

“And when my father came to Fresnois,” she 
added, “he resolved that Bonnel should never leave 
him; that Sylvain should be brought up in our own 
home. As you see, my affection is very natural.” 


76 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“We shall then try to discover this hero, whom I 
have always liked.” 

Anderic had known the Bonnels from childhood, 
and had proved his interest in Sylvain on many occa- 
sions. The poet’s success had been largely due to 
his friend’s influences, as the latter appreciated the 
lively, yet timid talent, so strongly in opposition to 
the character of the man himself. 

Notwithstanding the assurance of Sainte-Avene, it 
was at the antipodes of Dellys, near Aumale, that the 
count and countess met the Bonnels. During their 
first interview, the father’s eyes never left his son, 
who was very pale but calm exteriorly. The old 
game keeper apologized for not having brought Edith’s 
horses sooner, but Sylvain had been very ill; for six 
weeks the physicians had given up all hope. It was 
really a miracle! But he wearied of every place; 
Blidah, Dellys, now Aumale- — to-morrow some other 
place no doubt. However, for a few days, an im- 
provement was visible; he was stronger, his cheeks 
less hollow and livid. 

“Yes, yes,” said Edith, “if he will only be reason- 
able, he shall soon be well.” In fact, youth seemed 
to have conquered and crushed out the suffering that 
had ravaged him. The warm rays of the African sun 
numbed him into a salutary torpor. His thoughts, 
less confused, allowed his soul to sleep. His eyes, 
dazzled by light, saw less distinctly the adored image 
which now suddenly appeared in its radiant splendor. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


77 


The internal wounds seemed to throb less; the sharp 
pain was succeeded by the calm of unconscious 
lethargy. Morning and night, Bonnel, wavering 
between hope and fear, scrutinized the face of his 
son He took the delicate head between his rough 
hands, and after looking long into the eyes, covered 
him with kisses and left him with a suppressed sigh. 
Yes, physically, he was better, but that invisible 
and more serious pain was still there and would be 
there forever! The old soldier’s heart melted with 
pity, for, though he loved, he was powerless. 

The color rose to the poet’s brow as Edith spoke. 
One must then be reasonable not to suffer? Involun- 
tarily he turned his eyes on Anderic. 

The count was delighted to find an artist, a Paris- 
ian on the borders of this desert. They would under- 
stand each other, for their tastes were similar. His 
society would be a rest after that stupid Sainte-Avene, 
and be an agreeable diversion to the solitude with 
which he was threatened with Edith. It was indeed 
a god-send. 

“We shall not leave you,” said Anderic. 

“You do me too much honor,” replied Sylvain. 

“While your father is in search of those animals 
for Madame de Nivron, we shall nurse and amuse 
you. You must submit; it will be charming, will it 
not Edith?” 

“Certainly.” 

“There, it is settled, Sylvain.” 


78 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“But I assure you — ” 

“Nonsense! since I wish it. We need you: Madame 
de Nivron to amuse her, and I to — in fact, I accept 
no objections. You are my prisoner; you must resign 
yourself.” 

Sylvain therefore followed them. Notwithstand- 
ing his reasons to hate Anderic, the latter soon won 
his sincere affection by his cheerful manners. The 
count s indifference surprised him, but awoke no false 
hopes within his heart. In the worship of his idol, 
a unique dream sustained him — the happiness of Edith. 
She must never shed the bitter tears he had wept; 
her life must not be wrecked as is own had been; 
and though still bleeding from his wounds, he deter- 
mined to procure them an eternity of happiness. 

It was an heroic but useless task. However, he 
devoted himself to it unhesitatingly. He employed 
ruses and displayed the craftiness of the Mohican in 
bringing to light the moral riches of Edith’s charac- 
ter. Through him Anderic was making discovery 
after discovery. His wife possessed a high intelli- 
gence, with broad and noble views, an uncommon 
elevation of sentiment. 

From the very first, this annoyed him. It may be 
that this incontestable superiority lowered the unfor- 
gotten Fernande, or not loving Edith, he found 
these qualities simply an inconvenience. Then he 
feared to be forced to acknowledge these superiorities 
when he had counted on seeing only a slave. The 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


79 


spell cast over him by Fernande still existed, and 
was perhaps increased by his complete ignorance of 
the fate of the unfortunate victim. Although the 
chains that bound him were light and covered with 
flowers, he had firmly resolved to keep them as loose 
as possible. To maintain this result, the predomi- 
nance of the husband was indispensable. In admit- 
ting that Edith was his equal — perhaps his superior — 
in intellectual culture, in uprightness and energy of 
the will, in the knowledge of reciprocal duties and 
rights, he foresaw the possibility of a struggle in 
which he might not come out with all the honors of 
war. The annoyance he felt at this perspective 
vented itself in sarcasm and railleries, well-veiled it 
is true, but none the less piercing. Sylvain was 
sorely grieved; though these thrusts were not aimed 
at him, they brought a hot flush to his cheeks as if 
they were a personal insult. He often retorted 
angrily, but this only brought a look of reproach 
from Edith, and amused her husband. It was the 
young woman’s mansuetude that finally wearied his 
hostilities; she imposed a certain respect on him not 
devoid of admiration. For the first time since their 
marriage, he studied her. She was truly beautiful, 
with her large velvety eyes, dark and deep as the sea, 
her heavy black hair, twisted into an enormous mass 
above her head, the delicate and delicious face, more 
that of a virgin than a woman, more of an angel 
than a virgin, on which his kisses lighted up the ter- 


8o 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


restrial flame. But suddenly a diabolical inspiration 
brought the other before him, the siren with bluish- 
gray eyes filled with sensuous promises. Fernande 
effaced the pure radiancy of Edith. The unsatisfied 
desire, inflamed by the hauntings of imagination, 
increased her prestige. She was the heroine con- 
quered by fate, abandoned, though ardently-longed- 
for, embellished by all the seductions of misfortune. 
Anderic had had innumerable fancies, always tri- 
umphant and quickly extinguished, but no romance. 
Fernande had inaugurated the sentimental series 
in his life; through her, he initiated himself to the 
sufferings of renouncement, and he truly ended by 
believing himself unhappy. As is proper in such 
cases he must pour his grief in some sympathetic 
ear. Having no choice, Sylvain became his confidant. 
He gave no name to his idol, but Sylvain could 
measure in all its breadth the deep desolation of this 
poor heart, sound the flood of bitterness that filled it, 
the cruel deceptions, the hopelessness of a lost love — 
It was a pathetic scene. The poet accused that bar- 
barous, unrelenting fate which strikes blindly, sepa- 
rates sister souls and sows disaster. He forgot his 
own sorrows to pity his friend. 

“Be courageous, my friend, ” he said. “Heaven 
helps us through our trials. The higher our hearts 
are, the more easily they draw the thunderbolt. I 
little suspected your sufferings under your gay exte- 
rior — ” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


81 


“My life is a perpetual lie, because it is a perpetual 
agony, ” broke in Anderic. “Ah! what will bring back 
those days free from anxieties. I believed myself 
strong, and I am as weak as a child. Now that you 
know my secret, Sylvain, you will judge me less 
severely. Sometimes you blamed me, I know; you 
were in ignorance of what was passing within here!” 
he concluded, striking his breast to emphasize his 
words. 

Three-fourths of our ills are due to the conviction 
that they exist. Sylvain was the more unhappy of 
the two, but he pitied him sincerely. Above all, he 
pitied Edith, who was fated to assume the role of 
consoler and could never console. Ah! could he only 
assure her victory at the price of his life, how gladly 
he would lay down at her feet, even though the vic- 
tory condemned him to eternal suffering! 

They explored the Djurjura in its most inaccessible 
places, and still proposed one or two excursions 
before their departure for France. Sylvain awaited 
the moment of separation with anguish in his heart. 
His first repugnance had disappeared; his companions 
had become part of himself, and now he would remain 
alone, like the dead abandoned in a cemetery. He 
almost wished for death, since he must live far from 
his friends. While following the mountain paths 
with them, he felt an irresistible attraction toward 
the abyss at their feet. 

One afternoon, during a halt, the temptation 
6 


82 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


became clear, precise, and frightful. Fantastic 
rocks arose above them like gigantic monsters, tower- 
ing above the immense chasms. Dark thickets cov- 
ered the summits where the enormous sun cast its 
burning rays. A torrent rushed at their feet. The 
whole of this grandiose, terrible chaos, seemed filled 
with secret voices, mysterious calls in which Sylvain 
thought he caught his name: “Come, we are what 
crushes and puts to sleep forever!” they murmured. 
Leaning against a tree, Anderic was looking at the 
wild panorama, while Edith sketched the scene. 
“Why do you, wait?” continued the voices. “We 
shall render you as insensible as ourselves.” The 
earth, the trees, the marbles, were already in motion 
and turning slowly. The sun was sinking in gold 
spirals into the depth of the granite gulf. In the heav- 
ens, the birds traced undulating circles above his 
head. Standing on a rugged rock, Sylvain began to 
feel his brain reel. Suddenly his haggard eyes saw 
the tree on which Anderic leaned, waver and oscillate 
like the rest. The oak, undermined by rains, had 
given away under the weight; Anderic had lost his 
equilibrium and clutched one of the branches with 
the strength of despair. For a moment the tree 
remained suspended over the void below. With a 
piercing shriek Edith extended her arms, and this cry 
awoke Sylvain from his trance. He rubbed his brow 
as if to drive away the dizziness. Twenty feet below 
he could see the net-work of a path running over a 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


83 


ledge, a few centimeters wide. He looked around 
for a place to jump, and alighted in a tuft of briers at 
the risk of breaking every bone in his body. Clam- 
bering on a jagged rock he seized the body of An- 
deric, now swinging above the abyss. 

“Let go!” he cried, and straining every muscle he 
brought him against himself. 

It was time. At this moment the tree went down, 
followed by a shower of earth and stones. 

“My dear friend,” said the count, “I owe you my 
life; and though it is a useless thing, I will never for- 
get it.” 


CHAPTER V 


“Will the sitting soon be over?” asked Fernande, 
raising the portieres of the studio. 

“What an intolerable nuisance you are !” growled 
her father impatiently. “Come in or go out, but 
leave us in peace.” 

She approached the easel, examined the canvas 
and model alternately, comparing the uplifted face, 
half-closed eyelids, and delivered her opinion. 

“Sarah is more beautiful,” she declared. 

“Evidently,” replied M. de Mac-Oney. 

“She is tired out; I shall take her away,” she con- 
tinued encircling her friend’s waist and dragging her 
out of the studio into a small boudoir where a delicious 
lunch awaited them. 

“There!” said Fernande, pushing Sarah Keissman 
back into a chair before the fire. “Now, eat.” 

“But I am not hungry,” protested her friend. 

“Oh! those ethereal natures!” 

“I?” 

“Yes, yes, notwithstanding your plastic appear- 
ance. Admit, my dear, that it was only the necessity 
of a portrait that procured me the pleasure of see- 
ing you in my home. I use and abuse the windfall, 
84 


A BROKEN CHAIN 85 

even if my father does grumble. I enjoy a chat with 
you so much.” 

“Yet, last year, you displayed great coldness — ” 

“ Naturally. I was jealous.’’ 

“Of me?” 

‘'Of everybody. What woman would not have 
been with that stupid passion in my heart!” 

“For Prince Jamidoff?” 

“Yes.” 

“Poor Fernande.” 

“Bah! time has done its work, and thank provi- 
dence, brings forgetfulness. I think no more of 
Jamidoff now than you do of the Comte de Nivron.” 

Sarah Keissman’s face flushed, the thick brows 
contracted, giving her countenance a wicked expres- 
sion. Fernande’s words had struck home. 

“You are well informed,” she observed. 

“He boasts of it everywhere — ” 

“He boasts!” 

“Of having refused an offer from your father.” 

Mademoiselle Keissman tried to appear surprised 
or indifferent, but she could not deceive Fernande, 
who had the skill to throw the whole responsibility 
on Anderic and the ladies of Fresnois. 

“It is a horror!” exclaimed Sarah furiously. 

“You are indulgent, my dear. Let us say, an 
infamy!” 

The simple story told by Gaulier became a gross 
insult when repeated from her lips, insinuating that 


86 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


she had heard it from Anderic himself and adding 
that Johanna and Edith had laughed heartily over 
the whole affair. Having convinced her victim, she 
led her back to the studio, then hastening to her room 
she was soon ready to call on the Comtesse de Nivron. 

Edith obtained a veritable success in the salons of 
the capital. Everyone found in her the beauty of 
her mother, one of the most brilliant women of the 
last empire, and the perfect affability of M. de Roche- 
maure. Anderic however was insensible to all these 
praises. On his return from Africa, he had immedi- 
ately resumed his former habits of the boulevardier , 
and as the customs of elegant society are not propi- 
tious to legitimate intimacy, the husband and wife 
seldom met alone except in the carriage that brought 
therfi to a theater or a ball. The last shreds of her 
frail happiness had flown with the last hours of her 
wedding-journey. Open hostilities had begun during 
their short stay at Viellefort, before their return to 
Paris. Anderic and Johanna had irrevocably quar- 
reled. Anderic had been unable to conceal the disas- 
trous influence she exercised on his nerves, and 
Johanna, deeply wounded, had shut herself up at 
Fresnois, like Achilles under his tent, vowing she 
would make him repent of his black ingratitude. In 
vain did Edith interpose her affection between them; 
Johanna showed herself more deaf than a rock to all 
her prayers. Gaulier had deceived her. Gaulier was 
a wretch! He was determined to have this marriage, 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


87 


which, for her part she never liked, and the result 
was what might have been expected ! A brisk corres- 
pondence was exchanged between herself and Fer- 
nande, to whom Mademoiselle de Rochemaure con- 
fided the care of watching over her darling Edith and 
that abominable Anderic. 

Five o’clock each day, brought Fernande to take 
tea with Edith. She came sparkling with wit and 
gayety, full of attentions for everyone, except Anderic, 
whom she invariably treated with contempt. When 
pressed by Edith to explain her coldness, she replied 
that, as a good cousin, she espoused the family quar- 
rels; she sided with Johanna against M. de Nivron. 

Anderic was not the dupe of this devotion, how- 
ever. He understood that to love had succeeded 
that feeling akin to it — hatred. This conviction exas- 
perated his desires. As he saw her bewitching with 
coquetry and grace toward others, and cold as marble 
toward him, he felt more vividly the obsession ^of his 
former dream. This determination of being always 
there and never within his grasp, to offer and never 
give herself, again filled his veins with the fever of 
passion. He tried to fly, to forget; in spite of him- 
self the hour that brought her to Edith, found him 
there also. Whenever they met, in a hallway, on 
the threshold of a drawing-room, in the embrasure 
of a window, he tried to stop her, to breathe the per- 
fume that escaped from her clothes, to touch her 
dress, devouring her, with his eyes, taking from her 


88 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


some immaterial thing, whatever he could— something 
in which no one else had a share. But she passed 
on, cold, haughty, her eyes fixed elsewhere. Did 
she even see him? he thought. It was a constant 
irritation — a perpetual anguish. 

During the first part of May, Fernande was able to 
send triumphant news to Mademoiselle de Roche- 
maure. M. de Nivron was nearly ruined. The fact 
that he had lost near a million since his return from 
Africa was of public notoriety. Moreover, he had con- 
tracted an intimacy with that horror, Sarah Keissman 
— cousin Johanna must remember the woman he had 
refused to marry — and who was now revenging herself 
agreeably without the intervention of monsieur the 
mayor. It was an odious scandal, the talk of Paris, 
everybody pitied that poor little Edith who was look- 
ing very sad and pale. Although the countess made 
a great show of courage, and assumed a serenity she 
did not possess, no one was deceived. Her looks, 
actions, even her words unconsciously bore evidence 
that she was crushed, vanquished. After what strug- 
gles? This was the mystery, which notwithstanding 
her affectionate solicitude, she, Fernande, could not 
penetrate; for even with her, Edith maintained an 
extreme reserve. 

What Fernande omitted to mention was, the inte- 
rior workings of the mind in Anderic. He still retained 
many illusions: The disdainful and provoking atti- 
tude of Fernande he explained by a legitimate revolt 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


89 


of pride which assumed the form of aversion, reveal- 
ing thereby a strong love. He attributed to her a 
generosity- of sentiment incompatible with the base 
treachery of former days. He believed she was try- 
ing to show by her example that one must conquer 
the feelings of the heart, and that a sovereign will can 
accomplish it. If this were not her secret motive, 
why those attentions and devotion to Edith, those 
perpetual comings and goings, her affection in not 
leaving the countess? He admired Fernande for her 
kindness, dispensed at the price of her own peace, 
but he felt unequal to so cruel a heroism. He did 
not possess that incomparable greatness of soul and 
had no ambition to acquire it. To prove it and 
destroy all scruples, he spent his nights at the gam- 
bling-table, went out with pretty women, and finally 
played his master-stroke before Sarah Keissman, 
whose portrait he had seen at the Salon that morning. 
“Sarah forever !” he cried. Ah! if he had only sus- 
pected that morning when Keissman — But he did not 
know her then. How absurd were those prejudices 
in virtue of which we repulse happiness! In his 
opinion this was a stroke of diplomacy; Sarah would 
not fail to inform her intimate friend Fernande, and 
the latter would then understand that she was sacrific- 
ing herself useless^. 

Notwithstanding these miserable calculations, 
neither Fernande nor Sarah suspected herself counter- 
balanced in his mind by a secret regret, a vague 


90 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


remorse, brought on by the tears in Edith’s beautiful 
eyes. By dint of desiring Fernande, his passionate 
activity had flowed from the heart to the surface. In 
the days of their tete-a-tete at Fresnois, he had felt 
to the depths of his heart, in that mysterious asylum 
in which a man places his deity, the warmth of a 
smile, the magnetizing appeal of a glance; his whole 
being, physical and moral, had vibrated in response. 
Now he desired her as ardently, experienced analo- 
gous joys, yet they were dissimilar. It was the sharp 
permanent suffering of unsoothed nerves, of extended 
arms, of parched lips. It was also by moments — too 
quickly effaced, alas! the vision of the abandoned 
wife, the one who so proudly bore his name, in 
tears in her lonely chamber, pure and upright, envel- 
oped as in a shroud in the cloak of sorrow he weaved 
with his own hands. The more he coveted Fernande, 
the more elevated and worthy of respect now seemed 
Edith. 

Fernande was in ignorance of his exact state of 
mind, and could not therefore inform Johanna. Her 
letters, however, drove Edith’s aunt to veritable 
accesses of despair. Gaulier would have fared badly 
had he presented himself before her at that moment, 
for she threw the whole responsibility on his shoulders. 
But the worthy creature loved her niece too sincerely 
to stand idle. She determined to save the unhappy 
couple, called everybody to her and, including 
Gaulier, wrote to Sylvain, although she suspected 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


91 


him to be at the bottom of the count’s dissipations, 
consulted the abbe, even asking him to say masses: 
“it is your way of taking people out of trouble,” she 
said. But nothing availed, for she was soon informed 
by Fernande that things were at their worst. 

“Of what use are your prayers, abbe?” she asked 
impatiently. 

“Ah! mademoiselle — ” 

“Is there no justice in heaven?” 

“Do not lose faith.” 

“Nonsense! This is frightful and I shall never get 
over it. I always said this marriage was absurd. A 
treasure like Edith! Have you men no feelings, 
abbe?” 

“Mon Dieu! mademoiselle — ” 

“No, no, you are monsters!” 

In fact, things were getting worse every day. A 
reprimand from Gaulier, two or three observations 
from Sylvain, a few wise and conciliating words from 
the Abbe Desnoux, instead of stopping Anderic on 
the slippery slope drove him to extremes. He imag- 
ined that Edith was complaining, posing as a victim, 
and this naturally made him brutal. It seemed intol- 
erable that anyone should have the presumption of 
criticising his conduct, control his actions and blame 
them. To show these indiscreet persons how little 
he valued their advice, he proposed to Sarah that 
they should elope, in the secret hope that Fernande 
would run after them. But Sarah was not her father’s 


92 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


daughter for nothing; she had early learned to value 
things at their own worth and to make the most of 
them. 

Convinced of Anderic’s passion for her, she pleaded 
the necessity of her departure for the sea-side with 
her family and Fernande. 

“Where do you go?” he asked. 

“To Dinard.” 

“I also go to Dinard.” 

It was there that Sylvain, on a pressing invitation 
from Anderic, met the Comte and Comtesse de Niv- 
ron. 

“My dear Sylvain,” said Anderic as they walked to- 
ward the Casino, “Edith has the blues to that extent 
that it is becoming contagious. In your quality of 
poet, you are proof from that sort of thing, and you 
must bear half the burden with me. That is why I 
have dragged you from the boulevard.” 

The Casino was filled with people. There was 
some chance of finding Fernande and Sarah there, 
and, in fact, they soon found them in the center of a 
group of friends. Fernande shook hands with Syl- 
vain but gave Anderic only a cold look. She was 
charming to everyone, but icy to him. She laughed 
gayly, cast her eyes right and left, without gazing at 
him. 

Anderic nervously grasped his friend by the arm 
and dragged him out into the cool night; he was suf- 
focating. “I can stand no more,” he gasped; “it will 
drive me mad.” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


93 


“Let us go in?” suggested Sylvain. 

“There?” 

“No. To your cottage.” 

“To see Edith in tears? Thanks.” 

“Does she weep now?” 

“Alas! yes, poor woman — when I am not there. 
It is quite evident, although she tries to conceal it. 
When I enter, she envelops me with her large eyes; 
they are dry, but feverish.” 

“Take care, Anderic,” said his friend in so low and 
broken a tone that the count started; “I know Edith.” 

“And I!” 

“She would die without a word of complaint.” 

“And do you suppose it is not killing me! I can 
bear no more! For since you are in my confidence, 
you must know that my life is not what it appears to 
the world, my follies are only means of forgetting my 
sorrows; Sarah is perfectly indifferent to me — ” 

“Sarah?” ejaculated Sylvain. “Then why — ” 

“You know my secret. It is killing me. Ah! if 
Edith suffers, do I not suffer also! You cannot un- 
derstand it ; you have never had a passion that de- 
voured you like a cancer, slowly, inexorably. Per- 
haps I am not built like others, but I swear that I 
have struggled against it; it has crushed and con- 
quered me.” 

They had again turned their steps toward the Ca- 
sino. It was a sultry August evening, and through 
the open windows came the confused noise of conver- 


94 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


sation and dancing. Now and then they caught a 
glimpse of a group of young people whirling in a 
waltz, and the thought that Fernande might be among 
the number, made Anderic forget that he was flying 
from her; he felt but one desire, that was to see her 
at once. 

“Let us go in once more,” he said. 

“N-o, I must leave you; it is too crowded,” replied 
Sylvain, who was breathing with difficulty after their 
long walk. 

“Are you going to the cottage? Very well. Don’t 
forget to nurse the blues I spoke of.” 

“Ah! do not use sarcasm, my friend. It would ill- 
become you, after what you have told me.” 

While Sylvain walked away, Anderic continued to 
advance toward the edifice dazzling with lights. A 
shadow suddenly barred the way. It is to be sup- 
posed that hazard had nothing to do with this meet- 
ing, although the shadow made a gesture of surprise 
and annoyance. It was Fernande, and they were 
alone face to face. This time he was determined 
nothing should stop him; he would speak. 

“Fernande!” 

“What is it, monsieur?” she asked in that tone in 
which defiance, insolence, contempt and a shade of 
caress were mingled with wonderful art. 

He had but the strength to repeat: “Fernande!” 
He stood before her, his arms extended, his eyes flash- 
ing, his brows contracted, his nostrils dilated; he was 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


95 


superb. She recoiled before this dumb explosion. 

“Oh! do not leave me, I beseech you!” he cried. 

“What do you want?” she asked coldly. 

“I have longed to see you so much! I have so 
many things to say to you! You cannot be afraid of 
me, since it is I who fear you.” 

“I fear no one.” 

“Fernande, Fernande, what have I done to you? 
What has changed you so? It is the first time I 
speak to you since we again met, the first time we are 
alone, we who are always together, the first time you 
do not wound me with an outraging laugh, or an 
incomprehensible word. Ah! you cannot suspect 
what I suffer, although I have done nothing to de- 
serve it.” 

“Nothing?” she said, coming one step nearer. 

“Nothing.” 

She crossed her arms over her bosom, looked in- 
tently into the depths of his eyes, showing her little 
white teeth as she hissed: 

“What comedy are you playing, monsieur? Am I 
the intermediary between your amusements with 
Sarah and the lamentations of Edith? It would be 
presumption to count on it. Let it end here. Au 
re voir.” 

“No, you shall not leave me thus.” 

“Monsieur!” 

“You must first explain yourself.” 

“On what, pray? On the love I was foolish enough 


96 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


to feel for you, or on the passion you had the coward- 
ice to entertain me with? On my sentiments, or on 
your own? I have loved you, I admit; it is all over, 
I assure you.” 

“By what right do you take your heart from me?” 

“The right you gave me in rejecting it.” 

“I rejected it! — When? Where? How?” 

“Your memory is not very good, monsieur, but I 
cannot supplement it by mine. We have no expla- 
nations to make. Go your way. Go to Sarah, Edith, 
or wherever you please, but leave me in peace.” 

They were looking into each other’s eyes, their 
breath mingling together; Anderic could almost hear 
the beating of her heart. She loved him still! Yes, 
she loved him, though she affirmed the contrary. 
With a quick movement, he clasped her in his arms, 
and dragged her far from the bustle, toward the beach, 
where no one could see or disturb them, under the 
light of the stars, into the calm night, whispering very 
low, as if in a holy place, in the midst of the silence 
of religious things, where prayer may scarcely be 
uttered to be heard, beseeching her to answer. 
What signified her words, those foolish words, the 
right to take her heart back under pretext that he had 
rejected it? She must be frank, loyal, point out the 
crimes of which he knew he was innocent. 

“If you had loved me you would have married me,” 
she murmured, softened by the sincerity of his voice. 

“At the moment I was brutally informed of your 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


97 


flight, I was coming to offer you my name. To go, 
was to command me to keep my word, it was to take 
away the last hope of happiness that could make me 
violate it, for though capable of anything to win you, 
without you, I could but bow down in resignation.” 

“But my letter?” 

“What letter?” 

“The letter over which I wept a whole night, in 
which I wrote: “Break off; come, I am yours.” 

“Fernande, do you mean it?” 

Suddenly he remembered the two letters brought to 
him at Viellefort that morning of Gaulier’s arrival. 
One brought him happiness, and he had cast it into 
the fire without a glance! He confessed the sacri- 
lege. 

“He must bow before fatality!” she replied. 

He pressed her against his heart; she yielded to his 
caresses, as if conquered. Misunderstandings were 
cleared away, hatred far from them; they breathed 
the perfumed air, the breeze sang to them sweetly. 

“I love you!” murmured the count. 

“I love you!” she repeated, whispering in his ear. 
“That is why we must not meet again. I was strong 
against you and against myself while I believed you 
worthy of contempt, but you have disarmed me. I 
shall be powerless now. We must separate.” 

“Do not utter such words.” 

“Forever.” 

“You condemn me to die!” 

7 


98 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“Ah! what do you hope then?” she cried violently. 
“That I shall become your mistress? Never! That 
I will fly with you? No! I love you with the whole 
strength of my being, but there is one thing which I 
cherish above my love, it is yours. Women love 
always, even when they scorn; men must respect the 
object of their love. Remember this, Anderic, even 
though I saw you more unhappy still, even though I 
must tear my heart from my bosom, I shall remain 
inexorable, because I want to retain your love. Noth- 
ing in the world can induce me to belong to you, for 
nothing in the world can make you mine.” 

“To whom do I belong, if not to you?” 

“To the pure and spotless being who bears your 
name. Indeed we are doomed. I am not of those 
whom a shared affection makes indifferent. Edith 
is not of those whom divorce can reach. Farewell!” 

Divorce! — she had uttered the word. Anderic re- 
gained the cottage lost in reverie. Did the legislator 
in resuscitating a dead law, obey a social necessity or 
a secret passion? Did the people of the present day 
need what had been condemned for more than a cent- 
ury? It was opening the way to treachery, absolv- 
ing in advance injury caused by fragile human con- 
science. Divorce! — No, no. He did not love 
Edith, and he adored Fernande, but he could never 
consent to such an infamy; it would be breaking the 
exterior life of an irreproachable creature. 

Edith welcomed him with a smile. Sylvain, very 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


99 


pals under the light of the lamp, seemed a prey to 
veritable suffering. 

“Sylvain, will you come out and smoke a cigar with 
me?” 

The poet suspected something had happened and 
followed him into the garden. They seated them- 
selves on a bench facing the sea, which the full moon 
enveloped in a silvery sheen. 

“My dear friend,” began the count, “my existence 
being spoiled, the best thing I can do is to disappear.” 

“You are, nevertheless, no coward.” 

“How do you know?” 

“I would swear to it.” 

“Thanks. It does me good to hear you say so, for 
I feel nothing but contempt for myself. But are you 
sure you are not mistaken? Are you sure that I 
would shrink from the means of attaining my dearest 
wishes, even though that means were a crime?” 

“Has that means been offered to you just now?” 

“Yes, and no,” he replied. 

“In that case you do shrink from it since you are 
here. I was not mistaken in answering for you.“ 

“But I am so unhappy.” 

“Granted.” 

“I could cry out in my misery.” 

“Provided you do not cry too loud; Edith might 
hear.” 

Alas! she did hear. Leaning against the window, 
the whole conversation ascended to her, but she could 
not tear herself away. 


CHAPTER VI 


Toward the end of October, Sylvain, though very 
ill indeed, found strength enough to call on Made- 
moiselle de Mac-Oney. From a few words gathered 
here and there, and from his own personal observa- 
tions, he began to suspect that Edith’s inseparable 
friend was also her rival. And now she betrayed 
herself by advising Johanna to incite her niece to 
apply for a divorce. Informed by the aunt, whose 
enthusiasm equaled her gratitude to Fernande, he 
determined to have an explanation with the latter. 

“Your advice is seriously given?” he asked. 

“ Certainly,” she replied. 

“Then, in favor of whom?” he said dryly, looking 
straight into her eyes. 

“What a singular question. Edith, I suppose.” 

“Or Sarah?” 

“You know well that Sarah — ” 

“Is but a blind. It is you whom Anderic loves.” 

“Nonsense!” 

“It is therefore to benefit you that — ” 

“You have guessed this?” she said impertinently. 
“Let me congratulate you on your penetration. And 
you have come to favor me with a sermon, have you 
not? Much obliged! I have no use for such things. 

103 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


103 


Observe that I am superlatively good, for I might 
ring and have you shown the door. But, on the con- 
trary, I am delighted to have a chat with you, only 
pray suppress your sermon. A poet should find some- 
thing better to say to a pretty girl. It is not my fault 
if cousin Johanna transmits my little observations to 
you. We must defend ourselves; and if Edith neg- 
lects to take time by the forelock, M. de Nivron will 
be less scrupulous. It would be a pity to see the ta- 
bles turned. ” 

“The count can find nothing to reproach Edith. ” 

“A husband can always find something if he 
wishes.” 

“On condition that his wife should be like the rest.” 

“We all resemble each other. We all have some 
vulnerable point. Were it not for that, things would 
be too beautiful and convenient. You are then per- 
suaded that Edith loves Anderic?” 

“With a love which nothing can wear out.” 

“I am convinced that she loves elsewhere. She has 
not the least suspicion of it, but a word, a glance, 
would enlighten her. Do you realize the consequence? 
Do you still imagine that the count could find no pre- 
text? He could find a thousand, I assure you, for 
once enlightened as to her own heart, Edith is not of 
a nature to hesitate. Between a life of torture and 
— paradise, we choose quickly. The more so that 
the one she loves, loves her also. Ah ! my dear friend, 
he loves her to the point of — dying, through virtue, 


104 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


delicacy, or I know not what, like the imbecile — that 
you are.” 

She stood before him as she crushed him with these 
words, happy to take her revenge for the brutalities 
of a few moments ago, happy to show him that she 
knew his secret, the secret that was leading him to 
the grave. 

“What you say is infamous!” he cried. 

“Tit for tat, my dear friend. I have never breathed 
a word of this to Anderic; but if you meddle in what 
does not concern you, there will be a fuss, you may 
be sure.” 

Sylvain, who had been a daily visitor in Edith’s 
home, now ceased those visits altogether. The count- 
ess was informed indirectly that he had gone to 
Bourgogne. This grieved her much, for he alone 
could understand and console her, encourage her in 
the belief that Anderic would come back to her sooner 
or later; sometimes he even succeeded in retaining 
him at home in the evening, or he accompanied the 
moody husband to the theater and afterward enter- 
tained her with what they had seen. He watched 
over them like the most affectionate of brothers. 
What would become of her if he abandoned her? 

One evening her carriage was blocked, and the 
coachman was forced to stop the horses. As she 
glanced carelessly on the opposite side-walk, she 
caught a glimpse of Sylvain walking slowly, painfully, 
his shoulders bent, and holding a handkerchief to his 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


IO S 


lips. How ill he looked! And how came he there 
when she believed him at the Ravin? She longed 
to speak to him, but he was fast disappearing toward 
the boulevard in the first shadows of night. 

Since he had returned, he would surely come to see 
her. It was the usual hour of his visits, and she re- 
turned home feeling almost happy. But Sylvain did 
not come. Then, not knowing how to interpret this 
strange absence, she wrote him in imperious terms, 
that she would expect him the next day. 

The interview could not but be painful. Fernande 
had penetrated his secret, and he feared lest Edith 
should read his soul. 

“Ah! my life only stands between him and happi- 
ness, ” she said; “and if I did not believe in God, I 
would willingly give it that he might be happy. He 
should understand it. You understand it well, do 
you not, Sylvain? At Dinard, he was still good and 
kind to me; he often said affectionate words. I was 
nothing to him, yet he noticed that I existed, that 1 
loved him. Now all is over, even his semblance of 
affection.” 

She was weeping bitterly. He felt a wild desire to 
throw himself at her feet, to kiss the hem of her skirts, 
to console her, to drink the tears that bathed her 
cheeks. But outwardly, he remained cold and impas- 
sive. Ah! indeed Fernande had lied to him. Edith 
loved him as a. brother only. But his adoration was 
becoming a madness. With the saintly abnegations 


io6 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


of other days was now mingled the mire there is in all 
humanity. It had arisen in that tempest blown up 
by Fernande. 

As Sylvain was crossing the threshold to return to 
his solitude, chance brought him face to face with the 
count. 

“Ah! you here,” he exclaimed. “I have been told 
you had left Paris.” 

“You were deceived,” replied the poet, surprised 
at the coldness of the greeting. 

“You were then hiding.” 

“Why should I hide myself?” 

“To avoid meeting Mademoiselle de Mac-Oney.” 

“Oh! oh!” 

“I heard through Mademoiselle Keissman — ” 

“For heaven’s sake, my dear Anderic,” interrupted 
Sylvain, “don’t trouble yourself to invent a story for 
my benefit. If you know something, as you claim, it 
is through the most false, perfidious and dangerous 
creature in the world.” 

“I forbid you to speak thus.” 

“I repeat it.” 

“I would chastise you on the spot were it not that 
you are ill.” 

Sylvain enveloped him in such a glance, that the 
count trembled. 

“I have but one means of avenging myself of such 
words, Monsieur de Nivron; it is to beseech you, if 
you have no pity for your wife, to take compassion on 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


107 


yourself. Mademoiselle de Mac-Oney, I repeat, is 
leading you to an act of cowardice.” 

Anderic raised his hand to strike, but Sylvain re- 
mained unmoved before this fury. 

“No,” he said suddenly lowering his arm. “I owe 
you my life.” 

“That is of no consequence, monsieur. But my 
duty is to insist; beware of Mademoiselle de Mac- 
Oney!” 

“Go! and never return,” said Anderic passing the 
last words unnoticed. 

At the sight of her husband, Edith felt the present- 
iment of a catastrophe. His first words proved that 
she had guessed well. 

“I have just forbidden my door to M. Bonnel,” he 
said. “My irrevocable determination is that he shall 
never enter my house.” 

“You have driven away Sylvain?” she gasped. 

“Uke a coward !” 

She >£wed her head down, and a tear fell from her 
eyes. Whence came this new tempest? had she not 
enough sorrows to bear without inflicting inexplicable 
ones?” 

“I see it grieves you very much,” he resumed; “that 
proves that it was high time.” 

And in a transport of rage, his eyes flashing, his 
voice husky, he burst into reproaches on his poisoned 
existence. Why should he dissimulate any longer? 
His heart was filled with an incurable passion ! Night 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


108 

and day he endured an odious martyrdom; the mar- 
tyrdom of this marriage which made him the com- 
panion of a stranger, of a woman indifferent to him, 
of a creature, who at the most, could only understand 
the nonsense of a poet. That one, however, was 
easily suppressed. He forbade her to receive, speak, 
or write to him. His place as master would at least 
serve one purpose: he forbade her! And she must 
leave off those aggrieved airs, those impossible atti- 
tudes toward Sarah Keissman. What did he care for 
Sarah? Yes, he loved, but not that woman. Heav- 
ens ! no ! 

Edith gave no sign, uttered no word, shed no tear. 
She felt as if petrified. He had wounded her in her 
inmost heart. She was indifferent to his defense con- 
cerning Sylvain. Everything else was effaced before 
that brutal avowal: he loved! Not Sarah. Whom 
then? Who was her rival? What power did she 
possess to tear such cries from him? In her distress 
a great feeling of compassion came over her; she 
could do nothing for this man. He would refuse her 
compassion as he had refused her friendship. He 
barricaded himself in his inconsolable grief. She, 
who only wished for his happiness, was the chain 
that bound him to this torture. 

She spent the night there, motionless, crushed, 
searching for a solution, finding none. Toward morn- 
ing she fell into a heavy sleep. 

Sylvain also passed a sleepless night, writing to his 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


109 


father. He recalled his love, sacrifices, his devotion 
and affection for Anderic, the incurable and sublime 
passion of Edith for the man who obstinately turned 
his eyes elsewhere. He spoke of his own fruitless 
efforts, his earnest desire to bring happiness to those 
two beings worthy of each other’s love, but separated 
alas! by a perverse creature. He showed Fernande 
in a true light, audacious to the point of poisoning 
his soul, in declaring that one word would suffice to 
triumph over Edith, hypocritically inciting him to 
bold measures. Then he told of her supreme effort 
in poisoning the mind of Anderic, the unqualified in- 
sult cf the latter. Fernande, however, must not 
come out victorious. He felt his end near, recalled 
to a world which knew no suffering, but before his 
death he would tear the mask from her face. He 
went over Fernande’s visit at Fresnois, her adventure 
with Jamidoff, the thirst for luxuries that devoured 
her, her desire to avenge this first deception with the 
name and fortune of Anderic, her comedies, intrigues, 
and all that had passed since. Unless death came 
too quickly, he swore before God, to his father and 
to himself, that he would baffle her abominable 
scheme, and punish this vile creature. 

A great lassitude overcame the poet. He had 
barely strength enough to reach his bed after placing 
his unfinished letter in a box in which he kept all his 
relics: a few flowers given him by Edith when he lay 
ill at the Ravin. 


I 10 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


When Edith opened her eyes, the frightful scene of 
the previous night, forgotten for a few hours, came 
back to her mind. 

She immediately telegraphed to her aunt to come 
to her. She had taken her resolution: she would go; 
rid him of her presence. She had breakfast brought 
to her room, having determined to see Anderic only 
in the presence of Johanna, when she would explain 
her projects. She would give up the struggle; cease 
to be a burden. He would never again meet her in 
his path. Again she saw the flashing of his eyes, the 
trembling of his lips. How changed he was — he, 
hitherto so courteous. But who was the other, since 
it was not Sarah? 

In the afternoon she was informed by a messenger 
that Mademoiselle de Mac-Oney was ill and wished 
to see her 

“You know, my dear, he is dying!” exclaimed Fer- 
nande, as Edith entered. 

“Who?” 

“Sylvain. And he is all alone! My physician, 
who attends him also, was telling me. It is all over; 
there is no hope. If I could stand on my feet, I would 
go to him.” 

“I shall go!” said the countess. 

“Just what I hoped,” muttered the viper. 

Sylvain was sleeping under the influence of opiates. 
Edith removed her hat and furs, brightened up the 
fire and seated herself at the bedside. His respiration 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


I I I 

was short and painful, and an expression of suffering 
contracted his emaciated face. He was restless, and 
muttered incoherent words in which mingled his fath- 
er’s and Edith’s name. She bent over him and he 
felt her breath on his brow. He immediately opened 
his eyes and started in surprise. 

“You here!” he gasped. “Go — Anderic — ” 

“Never mind Anderic,” she said soothingly. “I 
have telegraphed to your father and he will be here 
to-night. Until then, I remain with you.” 

“No! no! Go!” he entreated. 

“Don’t agitate yourself,” she replied. 

“How did you hear of my illness?” 

“Through Fernande.” 

“Her! — My God! — fly!” She placed her hand on 
his lips to force him to silence, but it was needless, 
he had fallen back on his pillow and lay motionless. 
“Sylvain! Sylvain!” she cried terrified, thinking he 
was dead. He had only fainted, however, and with 
a last, almost imperceptible gesture, he implored her 
to fly. She looked around her for something to re- 
vive him, but discovered nothing that could help her. 
Then, still calling his name wildly, she raised his head, 
supporting it on her breast that he might breathe 
more easily. He was recovering consciousness and 
thanking her with a pale smile that illuminated his 
whole being, when the door burst open noisily. Be- 
fore Edith could realize what had happened, an iron 
hand caught her by the wrist, crushing the bracelet 
into the delicate flesh. 


I 12 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“Wretch!” cried the Comte de Nivron in an irrita- 
ted, implacable voice. 

She straightened herself up in indignation. But he 
held her down, almost kneeling, crushing her with a 
look, while three men penetrated into the room. 

“Bear witness, gentlemen,” he said. 

Sylvain uttered a heart-rending exclamation, cut 
short by a gasp that seemed like a rattling in his 
throat. 

“No — no — it is false — it is monstrous — ” he cried, 
panting, livid, and with haggard eyes. 

“See! he is dying,” gasped Edith. 

“Playing a comedy!” growled the count. 

“Lost!” murmured Sylvain. 

“And through you, monsieur,” said Anderic, com- 
ing one step nearer, “through the son of her game- 
keeper, which makes her still more vile.” 

The insult reanimated the dying man. He arose 
from his pillow, trying to proclaim the innocence of 
Edith. His violent effort was fatal. A stream of 
blood flowed from his lips; he fell back lifeless. 

“Oh! you have killed him!” sobbed Edith. 

Terrified by this unexpected spectacle, the count 
loosened his grasp on her wrist. Rushing toward the 
bed, she placed her hand on his heart hoping to feel 
its beating, searching the face with its fixed, glassy 
eyes, for one sign of life. She then religiously closed 
the lids, on which trembled a last tear of agony, and 
knelt down in prayer. Anderic looked on the lifeless 



mggggm 






■ 


- - . ■ 






j. 


“ An iron hand caught her by the wrist.” — (p. hi.) 




A BROKEN CHAIN 


113 

body and observed her sincere grief. The man, who 
slept his last sleep, had saved his life. They had 
loved each other with devoted affection and been as 
brothers. Why did he feel such anguish, as if some 
invisible misfortune were to burst on him? That sud- 
den, frightful death troubled him strangely, and it 
was with an altered voice that he turned to his wife 
and said: 

“This is no place for you, madame. Return home.” 


CHAPTER VII 


Edith made no opposition to the application for a 
divorce instituted by her husband. Notwithstanding 
the prayers of Johanna — who wanted the divorce, but 
in favor of her niece — the young woman remained 
unmovable. Her lawyer insisted that she should at 
least clear herself of the ridiculous accusation, but 
she obstinately refused, although Anderic’s conduct 
since their marriage and the wound inflicted on her 
wrist during the scene preceding Sylvain’s death, 
would have made it an easy task. 

“The truth would not change M. de Nivron,” she 
said. “ It would prevent a definite rupture, perhaps, 
without contributing to the happiness of anyone. It 
is therefore useless to have recourse to it. Let M. de 
Nivron be happy — without remorse. This is my only 
wish.” 

Johanna was enraged. Would she be stupid 
enough to deprive herself of the pleasure of rendering 
evil for evil, in spite of what the catholic and even 
the protestant church might say to the contrary ? But 
the extreme of folly was that tenacity, that surviving 
love through which Edith sacrificed herself to a 
scoundrel, a wretch ! She had no need to trouble 
114 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


115 

herself about his remorse ! As if monsters ever ex- 
perienced any! 

The day on which judgment was given against her, 
the Comtesse de Nivron, now Mademoiselle de 
Rochemaure once more, left Paris for Fresnois. 

The very next day she visited Bonnel at the Ravin. 
It was with a feeling of apprehension that she 
crossed the threshold. Being the involuntary cause 
of his son’s tragic death, she feared her presence 
might increase his grief, but she was performing a 
duty, rendering a supreme homage, to the dead. 

The old man took her hand in his, gazed at her 
long, silently, with a deep tenderness. He again saw 
the small room in Paris where this noble woman had 
transformed herself into a Sister of Charity for the 
sake of his son; he lived over the awful scene in 
which the one had lost his life, the other a reputation 
hitherto immaculate. Far away, through his tears, 
he saw the coffin covered with flowers and this noble 
woman kneeling beside it in prayers. She had given 
him no love, but oh! what sweet affection, faithful in 
the midst of her terrible trials! The poor man could 
not take his eyes from her beautiful face; it seemed 
to him that he found something of Sylvain in her. 
He raised a corner of her cloak and touched it to his 
quivering lips. 

“My life shall be devoted to you,” he murmured. 

“My friend!” said Edith, moved by this grief which 
burst into a cry of devotion. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


I 1 6 

“Thanks to you, he has his grave here, where he 
was so happy and — so miserable,” continued the old 
man. “He will sleep better, for he shall feel us near 
— you and me — those whom he loved best.” 

As Edith wended her way back toFresnois, she re- 
called the day when she and Fernande had returned 
to the Ravin and found Anderic in the drawing-room 
with Johanna. How wildly her heart had beaten! 
How she had loved him and loved him still. And 
what remained of all her dreams? A broken chain — 
She walked on unmindful of her surroundings, lost in 
reverie, absorbed in the past — that past which dated 
from yesterday only. One year, and all was over. 
One year ago he had come to her, without enthusi- 
asm it is true, but also without hatred; to-day — 
Suddenly Faust’s bark resounded furiously in the 
thicket, followed by human imprecations. Calling 
the dog, she hastened toward the cry and was just in 
time to prevent an attack on a stranger who was try- 
ing to tear his own animal from the fangs of Faust. 

“Monsieur de Sainte- Avene !” she exclaimed in 
astonishment. 

It was indeed the dashing commandant who did 
not shine at all in this circumstance, as he brandished 
a light cane over the dog’s head. 

“Upon my honor, my dear madame, you are a 
fairy,” he exclaimed much relieved, “for you appear 
suddenly when you are supposed to be a hundred 
leagues from here, and save people from being 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


II 7 


devoured. To think of finding you in this forest, 
comtesse! My sister was telling me, only this morn- 
ing, that you were still in Paris.” 

“I returned yesterday only. But you, monsieur — 
how came you here on foot, so far from your sister’s 
home?” 

“I left my horse on the edge of the forest, in care 
of a peasant. My sister claimed part of my vacation, 
and I am bored to death.” 

“With your family.” 

“Pshaw! — I take advantage of it to explore the 
neighborhood. When your dog did me the honor of 
flying at mine, I was in search of a grotto which is 
said to be wonderful.” 

“The grotto of Puyrenard?” 

“Precisely.” 

“You are turning your back to it.” 

“May I ask if you are going in that direction?” 

“Yes, it is my way.” 

“If you will kindly allow me to follow you — ” 

Edith bowed in assent and resumed her way. 

“Anderic is at Viellefort with you, I suppose,” re- 
sumed the commandant. 

“I am not at Viellefort but at Fresnois.” 

“Oh! it is now all one.” 

Her cheeks flushed. For the first time, the false 
position in which she was placed seemed like a dis- 
grace. 

“I am not a comtesse. My name is Edith de 
Rochemaure,” she replied. 


1 1 8 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


The astounded young man muttered a few inco- 
herent words without quite understanding what she 
meant, but realizing that he was treading on delicate 
ground. 

“I beg pardon,” he muttered, “I did not know — ” 

“Yes, the grotto is curious,” she said cutting short 
all explanations. “It is at the foot of the hillock of 
Viellefort, not far from Fresnois, near a mill situated 
in a gully. The entrance is narrow but when you have 
gone four or five meters, you come to a sort of ro- 
tunda where the sun, gliding through the fissures in 
the rocks, illuminates dazzling and magnificent stalac- 
tites. An opening from this leads to subterranean 
galleries which traverse the whole hillock. It is dark, 
and the passage is dangerous for it frequently caves 
in. At certain places you must crawl on your hands 
and knees.” 

“The deuce, that’s rather inconvenient,” interrupted 
Sainte-Avene. 

“There are also deep hollows filled with icy water.” 

“After all, nothing extraordinary.” 

“Except the chamber of the grotto.” 

They had now reached the edge of the forest. To 
the left, the hillock that served as foundation to the 
Chateau de Nivron, seemed crushed under the weight 
of the giant; to the right, extended the plain where 
Fresnois concealed its towers behind a thicket of 
leafless trees. Edith pointed to a large, heavy build- 
ing on the edge of a stream which flowed around a 
large rock. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


119 

“There is Peuyrenard,” she said. “The miller will 
tell you how to find the grotto and the bridge.” 

She had disappeared before Sainte-Avene could re- 
cover from his astonishment. He had not heard one 
word of her description. Since she had uttered the 
words: “My name is Edith de Rochemaure,” his 
brain was in a whirl, trying to disentangle the mean- 
ing. 

She was more beautiful than ever, this Edith — 

“Edith de Rochemaure!” — Somewhat pale, very 

sad, notwithstanding her efforts to dissimulate, but 

♦ 

what elegance, such charm in her person, such queenly 
bearing, perfection in grace and simplicity. And 
how imposing! — What could have come between 
her husband and herself? A serious disagreement, a 
separation perhaps? Even in Algeria, Nivron had 
shown himself inattentive; he had, no doubt, contin- 
ued his wild life in Paris and finally worn out the 
patience of this exquisite creature. How marriage 
obscured the brightest intelligence! — And his good 
star brought him, Sainte-Avene, at the psychological 
moment. Over there, it had been too soon; here, it 
was the right moment. The passion inspired by 
Edith on the terrace in Algeria, far from being less- 
ened during these few months of absence, was stronger 
than ever. It would be strange if some advantage 
could not be gained from this estrangement between 
the husband and wife. He must see. The miller, 
when interrogated, was most provokingly reserved. 


120 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“I know nothing about it, monsieur, ” he said. 

“But why do you shake your head?” 

“Because there may be something.” 

“What?” 

“I know nothing about it, monsieur. The steward 
or game-keeper may be able to explain.” 

These circumstances increased his desire to en- 
gage in the role of consoler; for whatever stood be- 
tween Edith and Anderic, consolation was a necessity. 
So agreeable a perspective prevented him from re- 
marking the picturesqueness of the grotto, although 
the spectacle was well worth the trouble. It was 
reached by a rustic, bridge devoid of elegance and 
solidity, but sufficiently strong for the few excursion- 
ists that visited the grotto. At the extremity of the 
bridge was a wide terrace, shaded by a thicket of brier 
and hawthorn, which almost concealed the entrance. 
Tall trees, undermined by water, bowed down over it 
as if ready to fall. As you entered, there suddenly 
burst upon you the thousand glitters of stalactites, 
those frozen tears of which the poet speaks, the 
prisms of light, cold and sad, yet charming, for even 
in her melancholies, nature has enchantments. A 
thick velvety moss covered the sparkling rocks and 
carpeted the wet and slippery ground. The only im- 
pression retained by Sainte-Avene of all this grand- 
eur, was that it was a fitting frame for a love-scene; 
timid virtue would not be frightened by profane eyes, 
for they would be surrounded by silence and mystery. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


1 2 I 


When he reached home, his first care was to ques- 
tion his sister, but her daughters being present, she 
quickly changed the conversation. He therefore sus- 
pected enormities, and questioned his brother-in-law 
at the first opportunity. 

u Why it is of public notoriety,” exclaimed de Ser- 
van. 

“It may be, but we militaries — ” began Sainte- 
Avene. 

“Then you don’t know?” 

“Certainly not, since I ask you.” 

“The divorce was pronounced against Edith, for 
adultery with a game-keeper’s son.” 

“Pouah !” 

“His name was Sylvain Bonnel, a sort of poet, writer, 
or something of the kind. Nivron killed him on the 
spot, and she had the affrontery to have the body 
brought here. The gentleman is buried in Fresnois 
cemetery.” 

Sainte- Avene began to form his plans. Conjectur- 
ing that Edith would not fail to go to the cemetery 
and sigh over the newly-made grave — all women have 
a liking for sentimental promenades — he resolved to 
establish his observatory in that quarter. He there- 
fore hastened to this place of rest to study the prem- 
ises. 

Near a black marble stone, covered with flowers, 
stood an old man whose figure seemed familiar. He 
approached noiselessly, without awakening the old 


122 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


man’s attention, and read these words on the marble: 

“SYLVAIN BONNEL.” 

“This is his father,” he thought. “I saw him at 
Dellys with Sylvain.” 

Mechanically, he knelt on the marble steps and 
bowed his head down, moved in spite of himself by 
the sudden catastrophe. 

“Thanks,” said Bonnel grasping him by the hand, 
while his burning eyes remained dry, empty of tears. 

This gratitude contained so much sweetness and 
simple dignity that de Sainte-Avene felt humiliated 
and ashamed of the role he was playing. Why dis- 
turb this woman in her grief and regrets! He recalled 
the charming intellect of the poet and his brilliant 
qualities. His brother-in-law’s story was true, no 
doubt, but it was absurd for him to undertake a strug- 
gle against the dead. Notwithstanding his good 
intentions, however, he called on the ladies of Fres- 
nois, returned the next day, and finally became a 
frequent visitor. 

These visits were almost unendurable to Edith, but 
they were such a source of delight to Johanna that 
she did not dare show her annoyance. She was more- 
over trying to overcome her aunt’s vindictive dispo- 
sition toward Anderic. The two estates were adjoin- 
ing and the interests of the two families had been 
identical for the last fifteen years. After the death 
of M. de Rochemaure, the old Comte de Nivron had 
come to the aid of Johanna by his advice, and his 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


123 


steward, Prat, had also assumed the management of 
Fresnois while ’discharging his duties at Viellefort. 
Once the divorce granted, however, Johanna did all 
in her power to make trouble. Gifted with the Ger- 
man genius for quarreling, she would willingly have 
ruined herself for the satisfaction of bringing ruin on 
her adversary. But Edith defeated all her projects 
by declaring that the interests of each party must 
hereafter be distinct from each other; it was inevita- 
ble. Thereupon the aunt ordered Prat to choose 
between Viellefort and Fresnois. 

“Choose Viellefort, ” said Edith quietly. 

“But if he prefers Fresnois?” cried Johanna. 

“Prat must continue his good services to M. de 
Nivron.” 

“And deprive you of them!” 

“Yes, you must continue to serve him my friend,” 
said Edith turning to Prat. “He is more exposed to 
the dangers that result from an ill-managed estate 
than I am.” 

“Shall I then become a stranger to you?” asked the 
old man sadly. 

“No, no, I will ask Bonnel to assume the manage- 
ment of Fresnois, and you must assist him with your 
advice.” 

Defeated in this direction, Johanna raised her bat- 
teries in another. Anderic owed the enjoyment of 
his inheritance to marriage; she therefore reasoned 
that being married no longer, he was not entitled to 


124 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


his fortune. She explained this many times over to 
Prat who, having always cherished the dream of see- 
ing Edith mistress of Viellefort, promised to enter- 
tain Gaulier on the subject at the first opportunity. 
Johanna was delighted. The executor could not 
ignore these facts, and Anderic would be deprived of 
his wealth. Viellefort would then go to the poor, and 
the country would never again be troubled by the 
presence of a man capable of any and all crimes. 
This charitable hope calmed and soothed the old 
maid somewhat, for, as Edith would not hear one 
word against Anderic, Johanna was forced to nurse 
in silence the innumerable grievances accumulated 
against her former nephew, and this restraint was 
almost unendurable. The few words whispered now 
and then in Sainte-Avene’s ear were insufficient to 
afford her much relief. But now the wretch would 
become a pauper! What ineffable bliss this perspect- 
ive contained! 

Sainte-Avene, being always ready to listen to her 
grievances, gained in her estimation every day, and 
she proved her consideration for him by inviting him 
to remain to dinner one evening. This was the occa- 
sion of the first serious storm between the aunt and 
niece — a storm which, in fact, almost developed into 
a tempest. Edith was furious. What was Johanna 
thinking of? Inviting to her table a man who had 
already been too forward! Why had she not con- 
sulted her? She was no longer a child whose opinion 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


12 $ 


Was of no importance. Her wishes should be taken 
into consideration! To attenuate the impropriety of 
receiving a man to dinner after three months of 
divorce, Edith sent a hurried invitation to the Abbe 
Desnoux. But the priest begged to be excused, as it 
was impossible for him to come. 

“As though your abbe was not a man like the 
other!” exclaimed Johanna. “What difference can 
there be? You are perfectly absurd with your ideas 
of retirement. If you continue to live in conceal- 
ment, people will believe you are guilty.” 

“I do not care for people’s opinion.” 

“That may be, but I do not want them to judge 
you wrongly. And after all, what is it? You consider 
it improper to receive M. de Sainte- Avene to dinner? 
Well, I see, nothing improper in it.” 

“There are some things which are only felt.” 

“I don’t feel them.” 

“In my position — ” protested Edith. 

“What is there so extraordinary in your position?” 
interrupted Johanna. “After marriage, nothing is 
more natural than divorce. In my country, Germany, 
it is an every-day occurrence. One of my friends has 
been divorced three times, and she is none the worse 
for it. I have often met her in society with the pres- 
ent incumbent and the two others. They all ap- 
peared quite happy. Her former husbands even 
seemed to have retained very pleasant souvenirs of 
her, and I assure you, no one found anything improper 
in these meetings.” 


126 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


The dinner was horribly dull. Johanna never 
opened her lips. Her regret at displeasing her niece 
and failure in converting her to her doctrine kept her 
silent. Edith was consequently obliged to be much 
more attentive to Sainte-Avene than she would have 
been under other circumstances, and the conceited 
fellow concluded that she was about to capitulate. 
Taking advantage of Johanna’s disappearance for a 
few minutes after dinner, he burst into a burning 
declaration. 

“ I adore you !” he began. “ I can control my feelings 
no longer. I must speak, or go mad. You are 
superb! The loveliest woman I ever saw! And I am 
certainly worth that boy, Bonnel — I am not a poet 
and cannot rave about stars, but I can take one down 
for you if you want it.” 

He went on, letting loose his whole vocabulary of 
love-making, while Edith, completely overcome by 
his audacity, stood motionless, unable to utter a word. 
Misconstruing her silence, he became bolder and 
made an attempt to clasp her waist. In one bound 
she was beyond his reach. 

“Go!” she cried, pointing to the door, “and never 
dare set foot within my door!” 

This scene, though more grotesque than odious, 
wounded her deeply. Not knowing where to turn for 
protection and advice, she called the next day on the 
abbe. The good priest welcomed her with great 
affability, but when she reproached him for his refusal 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


127 


of her invitation to dinner the previous evening, he 
replied plainly that his sacerdotal character interdicted 
his visits to Fresnois. 

“Your position,” he said, “is one which I cannot 
recognize outside of my ministry. The church is 
open to all the faithful; to you now as well as form- 
erly, my child. As a priest, and even as your friend, 
I shall always be glad to see you in spite of every- 
thing, but I cannot enter your home.” 

“In spite of everything?” repeated Edith bewil- 
dered. “Ah! monsieur, you who know me better than 
anyone else, you who have known me from childhood, 
do you believe me guilty? Do you, for a single 
instant, believe I could have committed the crime of 
which I am accused?” 

“I cannot believe it; but who will defend you, since 
you did not defend yourself?” 

“My silence was voluntary, and I would do the 
same again.” 

She then related the story of her married life, her 
sufferings, martyrdom, and the last insults to her 
agonizing soul, her firm determination in not oppos- 
ing the divorce, to give back to M. de Nivron the 
freedom he had lost in marrying her, to give him the 
means of being happy in his own way. She omitted 
nothing; she opened her heart entirely to him, and 
the priest’s features became more stern, his gaze 
more severe as he listened to this story of passionate 
love which led her to the sacrifice of her conscience. 


i 28 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“Woe to him who gives cause for scandal!” he said. 
“You had no right, through a culpable silence, to 
aid M. de Nivron in violating the laws of the church. 
Marriage is indissoluble. All the jurisprudences of 
the world cannot separate what God has joined 
together. Ah! you have suffered cruelly. You loved 
and still love, poor child. But this is not true Chris- 
tian love. You have thought of your husband’s 
material happiness but not of his soul. You lost 
that soul in losing yourself. Your duty was to watch 
over it; even though you succumbed to suffering, you 
should not desert your post. You should have 
endured your sorrows with patience, strengthened 
your soul with prayer, and given an example of such 
firm virtue that you would have gained respect if not 
affection. We cannot reject the sorrows heaven 
sends. Life is short and passion still more so; it 
dies with our youth and on its grave there germs and 
blossoms the humble peace of heart in which is for- 
gotten the long days of trial, which brings together 
the disunited, when one, at least, has remained so 
pure that he can impart some of his purity to the 
other and thus redeem him.” 

Edith listened with bowed head and cheeks bathed 
in tears. Ah! that redemption through sorrow, that 
blessed old age which obliterated the tortures of 
youth! Why had she renounced them in the bitter- 
ness of her despair? Why had she deprived herself of 
that one hope? Her life was wrecked, the irrepara- 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


129 


ble task accepted. Before her she saw a life without 
a smile, without a consolation — a life peopled with 
phantoms, devoid of joys. 

“Alas! alas!” she murmured, “what remains for me 
to do?” 

“To remember God, my child,” said the priest. 

She slowly resumed her way to Fresnois. The 
abbe’s words troubled her so deeply that a nervous 
agitation shook her whole body and she was forced to 
rest by the wayside. Her gaze wandered toward the 
village of Viellefort which nestled, bathed in sunshine, 
at the foot of the chateau, seeming to mock with its 
gayety the high edifice whose brown stones assumed 
rustic tints under the golden sky, and a sepulchral as- 
pect' with its closed doors and windows, and the silence 
that reigned within its walls. Edith was suddenly 
awakened from her sad reverie by the sound of 
approaching wheels. It was Prat, who at sight of her, 
stopped his horse and jumped from the carriage. 

“What is the matter, madame?” he cried. “How 
pale you are!” 

“I am a little tired, that is all. Are you returning 
to Viellefort?” 

“Yes, but I shall first take you back to Fresnois.” 

M. de Nivron’s steward raised her in his arms as 
easily as if she had been a child, and deposited her 
in the carriage. 

“Poor madame ! poor madame !” he sighed, lashing 
his horse as if he found a secret delight in avenging 
9 


130 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


himself on the poor beast, for an anger which he 
could or would not explain. 

Bonnel stood at the gate as they entered the court- 
yard, and as soon as Edith had alighted, he approached 
the steward. 

“I have something to say to you,” he said. “I 
came to inform mademoiselle (he affected this quali- 
fication since the divorce to show that to him the 
marriage had never existed,). The miller of Puyrenard 
has engaged some worthless scamps. There is one in 
particular, called Claude, who has a very unpleasant 
countenance. What I want to know is, whether the 
miller has a right to engage men without the approval 
of mademoiselle ? This Claude seems capable of any- 
thing. 

“My friend,” observed Edith, “you should not 
judge a man by his looks. If he needs the place we 
cannot deprive him of the means of earning his living.” 

“But madame,” declared the steward, “it is stip- 
ulated in the lease that the miller shall engage no one 
without y®ur approval.” 

“Exactly what I wanted to know,” broke in Bonnell. 

“Well, I approve of this Claude,” said Edith. 

“He will surely be the cause of some calamity,” 
began the game-keeper. 

But the altercation here was interrupted by the 
arrival of Johanna, who never failed to appear when 
two or more persons were in conversation. 

“Ah! so you are back, Monsieur Prat!” she ex- 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


131 

claimed. “What news do you bring from Paris?” 

“Not very good.” 

“Indeed!” 

The steward was twisting his hat between his 
hands, balancing himself first on one foot then on the 
other, and presented all the exterior indications of a 
man who would much prefer finding himself some- 
where else. 

“Well, go on, Prat.” 

“But mademoiselle—” he stammered, indicating 
Edith by a furtive gesture. 

“You have given my message to M. Gaulier,” con- 
tinued Johanna, who was not to be silenced by gest- 
ures. 

“Yes, mademoiselle; the best I could in the interest 
of — ” 

“What did he say?” 

“He said — it is rather difficult to repeat — he said — ” 

“Have you forgotten how to talk, Prat?” she inter- 
rupted impatiently. “What did he say of my argu- 
ment? An irrefutable argument, by which I plainly 
demonstrated that an executor must carry out the 
terms of the will, and that M. de Nivron is therefore 
disinherited.” 

“My dear aunt!” protested Edith. 

“My dear Edith, you bore me to death,” said 
Johanna impatiently. “I feel no delicacy in dealing 
with this person. M. de Nivron is robbing the poor 
in not fulfilling the conditions of his uncle’s will. As 


132 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


Gaulier is the executor, I have asked Prat to indicate 
and insist on this point. You did not fail to do so, 
did you, Prat?” 

“No, mademoiselle. ” 

“You demonstrated to him that by the formal will 
of his uncle, M. de Nivron inherits only in case of his 
marriage ?” 

“Yes, mademoiselle. 7 ’ 

“That a marriage undone is no marriage at all? 
And what did the notary answer to that?” 

“That it was, in principle, a matter of contesta- 
tion — ” 

“He means a simple matter of common sense.” 

“But that in this case, my master — ” 

“Well?” 

“Is legally entitled to the inheritance.” 

“Legally?” 

“Yes, mademoiselle. For he is — ” the words seemed 
to stick in his throat — “he — he is — remarried.” 

Had the whole of Fresnois fallen on her head, 
Johanna could not have been more crushed than by 
this astounding word: “Remarried.” She stood dum- 
founded, with gaping mouth, distended eyes, stunned, 
stupefied. 

“How long?” she finally stammered. 

“Six weeks.” 

“With that Jewess — that — Sarah Keissman?” 

“With Mademoiselle de Mac-Oney.” 

“Fernande! Fernande!” shrieked the bewildered 
Johanna. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


133 


Edith uttered not a word. Had it not been for 
the lividity of her cheeks, one might have thought 
that what she had just heard did not concern her in 
the least. She bowed in silence to those around her 
and ascended the porch with a firm step. But when 
she reached her own room, it seemed as if the ground 
gave away under her feet. She threw herself on her 
knees beside her bed, and burst into convulsive sobs. 

“My God! My God!” she cried. 

“It was the last bitter drop. He was married, 
lost to her forever. Ah! what a coward she had 
been. How blind, how guilty! The abbe was right, 
she had made an adulterer of him. She had given 
him the means of accomplishing this sacrilege, by 
both the human and divine laws. With her own 
hands she had precipitated him into the abyss of 
eternal maledictions, when he should have undergone 
here below, his share of tribulations, bitterness and 
despair. For this union would bring him no happi- 
ness, even though Fernande were more worthy of him 
than herself. Grief, remorse, the sharp sting of 
remembrance, would embitter his life. She had 
wrecked her own life to clear away all clouds from 
his brow, all thorns from his path, that he might go 
through life free and happy, that henceforth nothing 
should create a shadow of unhappiness to this adored 
being whom she no longer had the right to even love ! 

In the meantime, Johanna had recovered from her 
stupor, and Prat, no longer restrained by Edith’s 


134 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


presence, recapitulated Gaulier’s conversation. He 
told of Mademoiselle de Mac-Oney’s attempts to break 
off the engagement between Anderic and Edith, af 
the slow and obstinate work of the artful young girl 
after the marriage, of the nets she had spread and 
the traps she had set. 

“So,” interrupted Johanna, “M. de Nivron is not 
only a scoundrel, but a fool as well. With such a 
wife, he will have a fine life of it. Fernande whom 
I begged to watch over them! May heaven forgive 
me, I am the fool! And to think that I have paid her 
mother a pension for years! Monsieur Prat, I shall 
stop it this very day.” 

Although Bonnel had remained silent during this 
scene, it had produced a great impression on him. 
He hastened to his cottage and going to a cup- 
board, he took from a shelf a small oaken box which 
he opened with trembling hands. It contained Syl- 
vain’s letters — frail messengers of so much sorrow. 
He chose one from among the rest, read it from be- 
ginning to end, assured himself of the date: November 
the 3d, 1884, the day before his death — three months 
already ! — and taking a sheet of paper, wrote a few 
lines on it. He then pressed Sylvain’s letter to his 
lips, slipped it into a large envelope with his own, 
and remained thoughtful for a few moments as if hes- 
itating on the point of action. “Heaven will judge!” 
he finally muttered, as he went out to post the parcel. 


CHAPTER VIII 


The rapidity of her triumph surprised even Fer- 
nande herself. She had expected a desperate strug- 
gle from Edith. It required the wife’s complicity, 
her disdainful refusal to throw light on the matter, 
to decide the count, who was much shocked at Syl- 
vain’s tragic end, to undertake measures for a divorce. 
Anderic saw in this silence, not only a proof of guilt, 
but a challenge of wounded passion; the poet being 
dead, nothing mattered to her, not even reputation. 
He therefore lost no time, and a few weeks after he 
had regained his freedom, he placed it in the hands 
of the skillful Mademoiselle de Mac-Oney. 

During the first months of their married life, Fer- 
nande was charming and affectionate in the extreme. 
Her schemes had been crowned with success; she was 
rich, titled, and enjoyed her empire to the utmost. 
She kept the count at her feet by dealing out her ten- 
derness with a science worthy of her artistic instincts. 
She plunged him into a series of astonishments which 
he mistook for admiration. He had so exalted her, 
endowed her with so many virtues and perfections, 
that this refinement of perfection and virtue — the 
absence of which he might have desired had he not 
135 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


136 

been so blind — seemed to him the very essence of 
love. Now and then, however, a gesture, an intona- 
tion, a mere nothing disturbed him. They had gone 
to Nice, where Fernande knew Jamidoff was to spend 
the winter. She longed to be seen leaning on the 
arm of a young, handsome millionaire husband, who 
bore a high-sounding name, enjoyed an exalted 
position, and made her the most enviable of women. 
She would show this unworthy Russian that others 
could appreciate the treasure he had cast aside. To 
obtain this end, Anderic was forced to give fete after 
fete, scatter gold around her and indulge all her costly 
fancies. This was not precisely his dream. He 
would have preferred to conceal their happiness, and 
avoid public attention after the scandal of his recent 
divorce. Beside, what need was there of this extra- 
ordinary expenditure to entertain mere strangers, in 
this caravansary of the Mediterranean — where society 
is so sadly mixed? He tried to induce her to go to 
Italy, Greece, no matter where, as long as they were 
alone. But Fernande absolutely refused. She had 
not married him to live like a savage. A desert, 
even with him, would be a desert still; and the first 
pleasures she tasted in her life did not date from so far 
back that she should renounce them at once. He did 
not insist, but realized that his delicious ideal resem- 
bled the rest of women in certain particulars. 

The count’s fortune, though diminished by the loss 
of Edith’s wealth, was still of respectable dimensions 


137 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


and had hitherto been far above his wants. But 
Gaulier now warned him that he must curtail his ex- 
penses. This brought forth a volley of complaints 
from Fernande; the notary despised her and was try- 
ing to humiliate her. In Edith’s time, he would not 
have dared a remark of the kind. Anderic might 
have retorted that Edith, though rich in her own 
right, did not lead an existence that might ruin a 
nabob; but he was too much of a grand seigneur to 
stop at such small details as money, and Gaulier’s 
advice was unheeded. 

Although the count indulged all his wife’s extrava- 
gant fancies, there were many families at Nice whom 
Fernande, to her great despair, could not eclipse. 
The Princess Jamidoff crushed in the brilliancy of 
one fete, a whole series of routs, lunches and balls or- 
ganized by the countess without regard to labor and 
expense. Fernande could have torn out her rival’s 
eyes. But her rage reached a paroxysm at the feast 
of flowers. Her landau was covered with dazzling 
orchids, chosen by herself and of fabulous price. 
It was scarcely noticed, however, for the general ad- 
miration was centered on the Princess Jamidoff’s car- 
riage. It was filled with enormous sheaves of yellow 
grain, bound with tresses of gold incrusted with pre- 
cious stones that sparkled in the bright sunlight. A 
profusion of sapphires and rubies, scattered in the 
midst of the grain in imitation of the humble corn- 
flower and the red poppy, dazzled the eyes. It might 


138 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


have been taken for the chariot of Ceres, and each 
of these stones was said to be worth a fortune of itself. 
The name of Princess Jamidoff was on every tongue, 
and none uttered that of the Comtesse de Nivron. The 
outrage was the more keenly felt by Fernande as she 
was enthroned in person in the midst of her orchids, 
while the princess did not even deign to show herself. 
The carriage was occupied by Jamidoff whose bored 
face could be seen above the tall sheaves. 

The bored expression on the Russian’s face was due 
to his perplexity. In the Comtesse de Nivron, he rec- 
ognized Mademoiselle de Mac-Oney, and notwith- 
standing the hymen contracted on the shores of the 
Neva, to him she was still the incomparable Fernande, 
before whom he had knelt in adoration while they 
had murmured the duet: “Serge, it is for life,” — “and 
beyond, Fernande.” Jamidoff still believed in the “be- 
yond,” but he believed even more firmly in the real 
presence, and was asking himself whether he should or 
should not bow. ■ He was relieved from his perplex- 
ity by Nivron, who waved his hand as the carriages 
met. His bored expression immediately changed into 
one of ecstasy, and he bowed so low and with such 
precipitation, that his hat rolled out of sight among 
the sheaves of grain. 

“You know each other?” asked Fernande of her 
husband. 

“We have often met.” 

“In Paris?” 


139 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“Yes, and later in St. Petersburg.” 

“I know him also.” 

“I am aware of it.” 

“Ah! — Is he really as rich as they say?” 

“His income exceeds two millions.” 

“Two millions!” 

Ah ! here was a man who needed no advice from 
Gualier — who had no accounts to keep, no economies 
to make. He was a coward, it was true, but free to 
walk in the beautiful sun without fear. He possessed 
the all-powerful gold. He could eclipse the whole 
world. Anderic assumed very insignificant propor- 
tions beside this robust fellow. Anderic? Heavens! 
of what use was he? What could he do, half-ruined 
as he was? Besides these two millions of income, 
his meager fortune represented misery. And to ob- 
tain this misery, she had recoiled before nothing. 
She felt a growing anger against him for having forced 
her to so many intrigues for so paltry a result. More- 
over, had she not always felt indifferent to him? for 
she could swear before God that one man alone had 
ever reached her heart — and he was the glorious Jam- 
idoff. From that day, the count’s life became a hell. 
The unhappy man was expiating his fault through 
one of those punishments that baffle human foresight. 
He loved sincerely, and she tortured him with a re- 
finement of unheard-of cruelty. Whether Anderic had 
reached the age when reason regains the upper hand 
in natures which, though momentarily weak, possess 


140 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


many good qualities, or that the catastrophe of his 
previous marriage had ripened him, a considerable 
change had taken place in him. More sound and 
mature ideas, combined with the weariness of a void 
existence, replaced, little by little, his former incon- 
sistency. He therefore felt the more keenly the trans- 
formation which had taken place in Fernande. But, 
unable to believe he had been mistaken in her, he 
attributed her fits of temper and her extravagances, to 
a morbid state caused by her delicate condition, and 
this was to him a sacred motive to display an unalter- 
able patience toward her. With the coming of the 
child she would regain her former sweetness and all 
would be well. 

“I want to go to Rome or Naples, ” said Fer- 
nande suddenly, one evening at the theater. “I am 
bored to death here.” 

He looked at her without answering. His silence 
exasperated her. 

“You are intolerable with your airs of martyrdom!” 
she cried. 

Turning her back to him, she raised her opera -glass 
to scan the audience, and met the eyes of Jamidoff 
who was looking at her attentively. He was still the 
same — broad-shouldered, herculean in form, a contrast 
to the frail Anderic. A parcel of nerves beside a net 
of muscles, a count beside a prince. They presented 
the antipodes. 

“Why do you not present me to that Russian?” she 
asked. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


141 

“I supposed that you did not care to meet him,” 
replied Anderic. 

“On the contrary, it would make me feel young 
again. You told me he was one of your friends. Go 
and bring him to me.” 

When Jamidoff entered the box, Fernande scanned 
him from head to foot as if she had never met him. 
The prince felt somewhat intimidated. He knew 
well that in the presence of the husband, no disagree- 
able allusions could be made; but this first visit would 
authorize others and the hour of explanations would 
be anything but pleasant. 

“I regret,” he began, “that the illness of Madame 
Jamidoff should have prevented her from calling on 
the Comtesse de Nivron.” 

He suppressed the princess and ' inwreathed Fer- 
nande in her own title to show that in his eyes the 
first was infinitely beneath the second. 

“Nothing serious, I hope?” she said. 

“Very serious indeed.” 

“I am quite grieved, especially as we leave in a few 
days for Monte-Carlo. This will, no doubt, deprive 
me of the pleasure of meeting her.” 

“Monte-Carlo is not far,” said the prince signifi- 
cantly. “You leave me a little hope.” 

She gave him one of those troubling glances which 
she had so successfully used on Anderic, and before 
him, on the sentimental Jamidoff. It did not strike 
M. de Nivron that she had very abruptly shortened 


142 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


the journey she had proposed in the beginning of the 
evening. 

During the first few days of their stay in Monte- 
Carlo, Fernande seemed enchanted with the change. 
She left Anderic almost undisturbed, played wildly, 
alternating between the roulette and the trente-et- 
quarante, and never left the salle. But an uneasi- 
ness soon invaded her. Her fits of temper returned, 
and she again became bitter and fantastic. 

One morning at breakfsat she went so far that 
Anderic deemed it his duty to remonstrate. She left 
the table in a fury, rushed to her room, rang for her 
maid, and a quarter of an hour later was rolling 
toward Nice. 

A whole week and he had not come! An intermi- 
nable week! Could he have remained indifferent, or 
forgotten her a second time? She went directly to the 
Promenade des Anglais , drove up and down several 
times, but found no trace of the prince. She passed 
in front of the villa; the blinds were closed, men and 
women were going in and out, and something extraor- 
dinary seemed to have taken place. What signified 
this confusion? She was on the point of ordering the* 
coachman to stop and make inquiries, but fearing to 
be recognized, she took refuge in the shops, not daring 
to ask for information, and finally in sheer despair 
returned to the station. When she had dined, she 
walked restlessly up and down awaiting the train. 
Night had fallen, and notwithstanding the dazzling 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


143 


lights, all seemed somber without and she could 
vaguely distinguish heavy motionless cars, like enor- 
mous beasts at rest, dotted here and there with red 
and gold by the lanterns of the employees as they cir- 
culated on the platform and across the track. The con- 
fused noise amused her. It seemed like the distant mur- 
mur of the ocean, broken by the whistles of the loco- 
motives, now shrill and short like the sound of tearing 
cloth, then deep and long like the call of a monster. 
On a side track, she noticed a car which was being 
decorated with flowers. She listlessly inquired the 
purpose of this decoration. 

“The Princess Jamidoff has just died,” replied the 
man she had addressed. “And her husband takes the 
body back to Russia. They leave by the Paris 
express.” 

At this moment the train from Marseilles entered 
the station; but F'ernande paid no heed and allowed 
it to depart without her. She was determined to 
see Jamidoff. The prince soon appeared, and went 
through all the formalities with an impenetable coun- 
tenance. The lugubrious affair over, he was con- 
ducted by his friends to the other end of the station 
where the funeral car stood. They returned in a 
few moments, but perceiving Fernande, the prince 
abruptly left his companions and approached her. 

“You!” he exclaimed. “Ah! lean speak to you 
before I go. Fernande, Fernande, pity me! my 
mother has been dead fifteen months, my wife three 


144 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


days! I am free and you are no longer so.” 

The locomotive shrieked. Fernande, her eyes 
fixed intently on his, tried to speak, but found no 
words. She heaved a sigh, which he rightly inter- 
preted as one of regret, pressed his hand warmly and 
murmured: 

“ Serge, adieu till we meet again.” 

A ray of joy lighted up the pale pupils of the prince. 

“We shall soon meet again, Fenande,” he replied 
in a concentrated voice. 

Stupefied, she looked at the two red lights as they 
disappeared in the night. He was free! He would 
have married her; she would have been the princess 
Jamidoff. Ah! how she hated, with a wild implacable 
hatred, the living obstacle she herself had chosen! 

She entered a compartment and returned to Monte- 
Carlo, her heart full of bitterness against Anderic. 

When the count attempted to reinstate himself in 
his wife’s good graces, the servants informed him 
that the countess had gone to Nice and would not 
return before night or perhaps not until the next day. 
This intelligence saddened him. She was indeed 
nothing more than a sick child. He heartily regretted 
his want of patience, for in her nervous condition she 
was not responsible for her actions and could not 
bear contradiction. How would he spend the day? 
Should he attempt to join her? But where? in Nice, 
Beaulieu, or one of those charming spots on the shore 
which might have attracted her fancy? She had 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


145 


gone for a whole day to punish him. He went to 
lounge on the terrace of the Casino, watching the 
abrupt opening of the boxes beneath him, the flight 
of the pigeons, and their sudden fall as a shot rang 
through the air, then his eyes wandered over the vast 
expanse of blue sea disappearing in the distance under 
the sky, toward Africa. 

A disgust of life, an extreme weariness which he 
had never known, came over him. 

These silent waves, always the same, scarcely 
disturbed by the undulations of the tide, re- 
proached him. Was he quite sure that he was 
blameless in the past? Fernande was the present, 
and in her was centered the future; but in the past, 
could he swear that he had done nothing beneath his 
dignity? The man of to day — so different from the 
man of other days — saw the follies that had marked 
each of his steps. A name arose to his lips — a name 
he did not dare to utter. That he might escape from 
his thoughts, he entered the Casino, made his way tc 
the roulette table and mechanically threw down a few 
louis. Before him stood an elegant and very lucky 
gentleman, if one could judge by the piles of gold and 
bank-notes that lay near him. He was the center of 
attraction, for at Monte-Carlo a winner is always 
an interesting personage, because there are sc 
many losers, no doubt. Anderic’s number won 
and as he leaned forward to pick up his win- 
nings, the lucky player turned to hand them to 


10 


146 A BROKEN CHAIN 

him. A double exclamation escaped their lips: 

“Ah! my dear friend !” 

“Sainte-Avene!” 

“What luck to meet you here, my dear Anderic!” 

Sainte-Avene pocketed his gold, took Nivron by 
the arm and led him away from the crowd. 

“I hope I am not keeping you from playing?’’ said 
he. 

“No, I was only killing time.” 

“Then, my dear friend, I shall take possession of 
you. I have so many things to tell you — or rather — 
in fact, I am delighted to see you.” 

“The pleasure is mutual, I assure you.” 

They seated themselves, side by side, on a sofa. 
No place in the world afforded more perfect solitude 
than this crowded, buzzing hive — the gambling- 
room of Monte-Carlo. 

“Have you been here long?” asked Sainte-Avene. 

“About a week. My wife was tired of Nice.” 

“Your wife!” 

“Yes.” 

“Why, my dear fellow, I saw her day before yes- 
terday.” 

“Very likely.” 

“What are you talking about? I mean I saw her 
at Fresnois, day before' yesterday.” 

Anderic bit his lips and a cloud darkened his brow. 
Fixing his eyes on the ground, he said in a low 
voice, with a tinge of melancholy: 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


*47 


“ Madame de Rochemaure is no longer the Comtesse 
de Nivron.” 

“There is then another? — Ah! sapristi! — ” Sainte- 
Avene could not help exclaiming. Then suddenly 
recalling himself, he added quickly: “Excuse me, my 
friend — the surprise — you who formerly had such a 
horror of marriage — humph ! How we change !” 

Anderic was thinking that versatility is not always 
a recommendable virtue, but kept his reflections to 
himself. 

“My first marriage was one of convenience.” 

“And it did not suit you.” 

“It is usually the case.” 

“Men have a fashion of qualifying things thus — 
On the contrary, the second — -” 

“Is a marriage of love,” interrupted Nivron coldly. 

“Allow me to congratulate you. Happy is he who 
finds a gentle, loving heart to sympathize with his own. 
I have never realized it so well as at this moment. 
Not that I aspire to become a benedict. Heaven 
forbid!” 

“Take care.” 

“Oh, I profess the same doctrines you boasted of 
formerly. My freedom above all. But — but — but — ” 

“In short you are in love.” 

“Over head and ears, my dear Anderic.” 

“You should have an understanding.” 

“Ah! — there’s the rub. She would not even listen 


to me. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


I48 

“So you are rejected?” 

“Yes. It was a terrible shock, and I am still suffering 
from it. I counted on Monte-Carlo to make me for- 
get. Ah! well, it is true I am winning in a stupid, 
monotonous manner, but it brings not the least emo- 
tion — nothing that drives away or soothes the recol- 
lection.” 

“Never mind, the roulette will have its revenge.” 

“Bah! I shall not even care.” 

“It must be very serious?” 

“More than you can ever imagine. I would not 
have believed it myself. I was visiting my sister and 
chance brought me face to face with a woman — such 
a woman, my friend ! I had already met her and she 
had produced an impression on me — in Africa! But 
you know, over there — ” 

“Yes, and when you found her alone in Bour- 
gogne—” 

“You are mistaken. I was about to say that when 
I met her the first time, her virtue was of diamond; 
something so pure, resisting and solid, that it was 
impossible to make a flaw in it. And now I find her 
more beautiful than ever! A queen, a goddess!” 

“But not flawless?” 

“Precisely.” 

“The deuce!” 

“I called on her every day. I courted her assidu- 
ously, respectfully, almost silently.” 

“Then it is not astonishing — ” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


149 


“Well you see, I wanted to gain her confidence.” 

“Monster!” 

“And at a favorable moment, I made my declara- 
tion.” 

“And she showed you the door?” 

“Yes, and with such an air! You might have 
thought her an outraged madonna.” 

“And this only redoubled your ardor?” 

“On the contrary, it disconcerted me completely. 
I dropped the whole affair and took flight.” 

“Coward!” 

“That may be. But just imagine, my dear friend, 
a practical man like me, to find himself in love like 
an imbecile, for good and forever.” 

“You should have persevered.” 

“Where would that have brought me?” 

“Where it brought others.” 

“One only, not more. Let us not exaggerate. 
No, no, I know her now. The man is not yet born 
who shall win her heart.” 

“In the meantime,” said Anderic, “as I am alone 
this evening, you must do me the pleasure of dining 
with me.” 

Sainte-Avene accepted the invitation. They left 
the Casino arm in arm and went to the Cafe de Paris, 
where the officer swallowed two or three glasses of 
absinthe under pretext that this deplorable story had 
taken away his appetite. This was not apparent at 
the table, but what Anderic noticed particularly was 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


150 

the quantity of liquid which a human stomach is ca- 
pable of receiving and containing without danger of 
bursting. A prodigious number of bottles had disap- 
peared in this human funnel, and Sainte-Avene still 
continued his sentimental effusions. His voice grew 
louder, his words resounded like a trumpet; the whole 
restaurant was taken into the confidence of his sacred 
and painful secret. Anderic could not help laughing 
at some of his remarks, though much annoyed to see 
their table the center of attraction. 

“You see,” said he, as he looked critically at the 
glass of wine he held in his hand, “if we don’t always 
succeed with women, it is because we don’t know 
how. It requires stratagem — ” 

“Indeed?” 

“Yes, one must use stratagem,” he went on, became 
confused and somewhat incoherent. “Some you find 
within a certain circle and they never come out of it. 
I have made ravages in that group. But there are 
others — Ah ! sapristi — you are threatened with 
mamma — they talk of the heavens and stars — which 
all amounts to nothing. Go right on and a fall comes. 
As you know, the best way to stumble is to keep 
your eyes on the stars. But what will you, when 
one is not warned and therefore unprepared? Fool 
that I am! Triple fool! How stupid I have been! 
I might have easily learned some verses, since she 
will love nothing but poets.” 

Anderic started, and his eyes flashed with anger at 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


ISI 

Sainte-Avene. But the latter did not remark the 
change in his countenance nor the attention with 
which everybody now listened. 

“I shall be a poet,” he went on, “I will compose 
some 4 Songs of the heart,’ and shall have nay re- 
venge — ” 

“We shall have coffee at home,” interrupted Niv- 
ron, taking the drunken officer by the arm and forc- 
ing him from his chair. 

Sainte-Avene followed without much resistance, 
although he declared there was still champagne left. 
Anderic installed him before a table and drank coffee, 
while his companion nodded his head gravely and kept 
on in a sing-song tone: 

“I shall be a poet and will take my revenge; you’ll 
see, Anderic. The devil! one need not be so smart, 
to be as smart as that little Bonnel.” 

“Come, my friend,” muttered Nivron, “you must 
be careful of what you say, and before whom you 
say it.” 

“She will see nothing but fire. Verses are all alike. 
They are made by the yard. One must fall into 
line,” he went on and overcome by force of habit 
through the fumes of intoxication, he cried in a sten- 
torian voice: “Right about face, fall into line ! Shoul- 
der arms !” 

The crystals shivered as if under the breath of a 
tempest. 

“You are abominably drunk,” said Anderic. 


152 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


‘‘Me? I have taken nothing, for I am dying of 
thirst,” he replied indignantly. 

In one draught he emptied the bottle of champagne 
before him. Then rising abruptly, he beat the air 
for a moment with his hands and fell heavily to the 
floor. 

“Carry him away!” ordered Anderic to the servant 
who answered his summons. 

An extreme disgust and a feeling of animosity, much 
akin to jealousy, had taken possession of the count. 
He paced up and down the narrow room, his lips 
parched, his brain on fire. Sainte-Avene's public 
confidences had awakened a host of conflicting emo- 
tions within his breast. Edith was certainly nothing 
more to him. Her past conduct had deprived her of 
all claims to his respect. But the thought that she 
was at the mercy of the first comer who wished to 
take advantage of her position, that she had no one 
to defend her, troubled him. He no longer had the 
light to watch over her, not even from afar — all was 
over between them, forever. They must henceforth 
go through life as strangers — they who had borne the 
same name, whose lives had been so closely bound 
together, and — by a mockery of fate — Sainte-Avene 
could, between two drunken hiccoughs, confide to 
him his absurd secrets, his desires and projects, while 
he, the former husband, had not even the right to 
chastise him! 

At this point his reflections were interrupted by a 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


153 

servant who brought in his mail. Seating himself be- 
fore the fire, he looked over it hurriedly, fearing to 
find a message from Fernande announcing her deter- 
mination of spending the night at Nice. There were 
several papers and only one letter — a large volumi- 
nous letter, which was not from her, for the writing 
was unknown to him and the postmark half-effaced. 
He opened it, and read the few lines, written in a 
heavy hand: 

“Monsieur: — Ordinarily, Mademoiselle Edith de 
Rochemaure’s wishes are sacred to me. I have re- 
spected them in what concerns you as long as I could 
hope for a return of justice. She would throw no 
light on certain events which, had they been known, 
would have prevented you from obtaining your di- 
vorce. I have now the right to make known the 
truth to you without consulting her. I beg you to 
read the inclosed letter. Jean Bonnel.” 

Anderic passed his hand over his brow which was 
bathed in a cold perspiration. He felt his heart fill- 
ing with anguish as he looked at the pages he held in 
his trembling fingers — the pages covered with Syl- 
vain’s delicate, close writing, which Bonnel invited 
him to read. 

What revelation would come to him from the grave? 

At the very first lines he began to tremble. Yes, it 
was true; it was all there in detail, without deceit, 
without reserve. Sylvain loved Edith. But with an 
adoration made up of perpetual sacrifices, with almost 


1 54 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


superhuman abnegation. Oh ! what lamentable cries 
of suffering, what pure ecstasies of immolation! Not 
one word which might cause a child to blush, not one 
phrase which breathed other than pure sentiments. 
The absolute forgetfulness of self, the accepted mar- 
tyrdom undergone and borne with gratitude, if only 
Edith were happy, and Anderic finally realized how 
she loved him with a passionate, undying love — All 
the details passed one by one before his eyes. The 
whole atrocious history was minutely exact — Edith’s 
tortures, the poet’s efforts to conceal* the husband’s 
neglect and bring him back to her — Suddenly An- 
deric’s heart almost stopped beating. Fernande was 
appearing on the scene in a terrible role. What ! she 
had basely set traps to bring about Edith’s fall! She 
had, however, only succeeded in torturing the poet’s 
soul; he had been stronger than her in his determina- 
tion to bring back the husband to the wife — True, 
true, all this was true ! Ah ! but here, Sylvain was 
lying. These last lines were a lie. No, Fernande 
had not tried to entrap him, Anderic, because she 
could not marry Jamidoff. Fernande dreamed of 
neither fortune nor title ! Fernande had loved him 
from the day they had met! — Alas! alas! with im- 
placable logic, Sylvain went back to that very epoch, 
unmasking the comedy played by Mademoiselle de 
Mac-Oney, forgetting nothing, neither the departure 
from Fresnois, the part taken by Sarah Keissman, the 
letters to Johanna, nor her daily visits to Edith. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


155 


The letter ended with Sylvain’s vow before God, his 
father and his conscience, to baffle all these maneu- 
vers. Death had left his task unfinished. 

Oh! the frightful revelation! Could it be a night- 
mare? How this unrelenting father struck him to the 
heart through the icy hand of his son ! If it was ven- 
geance — and it could be nothing else — how implacable 
it was! He tried to excuse Fernande. She loved him 
with a blind, wild, foolish love, but it was love, never- 
theless. What did he know of it? The papers dropped 
from his hands. A painful silence reigned through the 
room. Nothing was heard but the monotonous tick- 
ing of the clock. Mechanically he looked at the hour. 
Fernande was very late. Why had she gone to Nice? 
In spite of himself, a name he expelled from his 
mind, a face he drove away from before his eyes, 
obstinately returned. Jamidoff was at Nice. And 
yet, the other evening when he had entered their box 
at the opera, she had remained calm — Why had 
she asked him to bring him? But after all, why 
should she not have asked him? Ah! would he allow 
jealousy to sting him, and were not these doubts 
monstrous? He well knew he could not deny that 
she loved him. And when a few minutes later she 
entered the room, he rushed toward her and seized her 
in his arms. 

“Say that you love me, Feri*ande! Say that you 
love me!” he cried passionately. 

She looked coldly at him, disengaged herself roughly, 
and in a dry, harsh voice said: 


156 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“You bore me with your stupidity. ” 

He staggered under the brutal blow, but quickly 
recovered himself. 

“Where have you been?” he asked sternly 

“To Nice.” 

“To see Prince Jamidoff?” 

“Yes.” 

“Your lover.” 

“Not yet.” 

“Read this,” he said, throwing down Sylvain’s let- 
ter. She took it up, read it attentively, placed it on 
the chimney, and seating herself in an arm-chair, 
extended her feet to the fire. 

“How he loved her!” she said sarcastically. “It 
takes a poet to make such a fool of himself! What 
a pity you killed him; he would have defended Edith 
and we should not be here together stupidly watching 
these burning logs — But what has Jamidoff to do 
with this? You amplify, my dear!” 

“You saw Jamidoff to-day?” 

“Only for a few minutes, unfortunately.” 

“And Sylvain’s letter tells the truth, does it not?” 

“From beginning to end.” 

“On all points?” 

“On everything.” 

“Wretch!” he cried, beside himself with rage. 

“What loving words!” she laughed. “Good night.” 

Fernande was not wanting in courage; a week pre- 
vious, Anderic would have strangled her for less cause. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


*57 


She could not know of the secret workings of his 
mind which had transformed him so abruptly; in fact, 
he was scarcely aware of it himself. She had returned 
determined to drive him to one of those acts of 
violence which a woman, seconded by an artful serv- 
ant, can construe into a terrible weapon before the 
law. She was deeply grieved at her ill-success, and 
passed out of the room shrugging her shoulders con- 
temptuously. Anderic felt his strength increasing 
under the weight that crushed him. For the first 
time he found himself face to face with despair. He 
thought of those who sorrow and weep here below, 
and he was moved by a fraternal pity, filled with un- 
bounded sympathy. He admired Sylvain and pitied 
Edith. Taking up the poet’s letter he traced below 
it the word: “Forgive, ” and placing it in an envelope, 
he addressed it to the Chateau de Fresnois. Then 
he remembered Sainte-Avene and the plans of con- 
quest he had boasted, that insolence of which he was 
the cause, since by his conduct he authorized the 
world to believe her, Edith, guilty. His duty was to 
tell the truth. He passed a sleepless night, and though 
overcome by physical weariness, his mind and heart 
were at rest. The last catastrophe had swept away, 
as a tempest sweeps away the clouds, the remaining 
mire of his dissipated youth. 

As soon as dawn appeared, he went out into the fresh 
air and strolled to the terrace, as on the previous day. 
The sward under his feet was of soft, emerald tint; the 


! 5 8 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


boxes no longer opened to death, and the endless bil- 
lows broke into a thousand ripples, as if the blue ex- 
panse were smiling as it rolled on far away, toward 
the African shore. Had some of these waves, which 
now sung to his ears, rocked the ship that had carried 
Edith and himself over the sea? Was this soft breeze, 
this bright sun, this peace of benign nature, the same 
sun, the same breeze which they had enjoyed? And 
in this sky, where not the lightest cloud darkened the 
azure, was there not still a trace of glances ascending 
as a prayer or supplication toward heaven? O, mag- 
ical souvenir, which reconstructs all that has not been 
and brings before the eyes all we have not seen! 

Sainte-Avene was still yawning and stretching him- 
self when the Comte de Nivron was announced. 

“Show him up,” he said to the servant. 

“My dear friend,” said Anderic, coming straight to 
the point, “you honored me with your confidence yes- 
terday. It is my duty to inform you that you are 
mistaken regarding the character of a person, who, in 
spite of appearances, deserves my highest respect and 
yours. There is but one guilty person in this deplor- 
able affair: that is myself. The former Comtesse de 
Nivron bore the blame before the world, that I might 
be free to run after what I believed to be happiness. 
Her painful position is my work. I feel a sincere re- 
morse and would never forgive myself if, through my 
fault, she were persecuted. You are a gentleman, and 
I need insist no further. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


159 


The result of this interview was a formal proposal 
dispatched by the first mail from the Commandant de 
Sainte-Avene to Mademoiselle Johanna de Roche- 
maure, soliciting the hand of her niece Edith, in mar- 
riage. Two days later he received, a refusal with re- 
grets. The church, not content in imposing celibacy on 
its priests, also condemned to it the young women of 
Fresnois. There were other objections to this flatter- 
ing proposal, but she would spare him the enumera- 
tion. 


CHAPTER IX 


On the fifth of December, 1885, the Comtesse de 
Nivron gave birth to a daughter. 

The maternal fibers which are supposed to exist 
among the various attributes of womanhood, did not, 
however, vibrate within her in response to the cries 
of the little stranger. The anticipations of mother- 
hood had never filled her with ecstasy, and the only 
thing that now preoccupied her mind was the preser- 
vation of her beauty. She exacted the utmost care 
and attention, and the only notice she took of little 
Germaine was to insist on being relieved of her cries. 
The child was consequently carried to a distant room, 
and Anderic spent most of his time near the cradle, 
watching the sleeping infant, surprised at the hold 
this delicate little being had taken upon his heart. 
When fully recovered from her illness, Fernande 
launched once more into the whirl of society where 
her eccentricities accumulated with each day. All 
follies, however, have the disagreeable knack of cost- 
ing dearly. Anderic’s fortune was melting away like 
a fall of snow under the rain. Now and then he ven- 
tured a few mild remonstrances, but these only pro- 
voked disastrous comparisons between himself and 
Jamidoff. The Russian had not returned to France 
ICO 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


161 


since his wife’s death, but his praises were sung on 
all occasions. Although jealousy never touched his 
heart, for he was now totally disenchanted, he avoid- 
ed these scenes as much as possible, determined to at 
least maintain around him a semblance of exterior 
respect. 

Time rolled on; two years glided by. Harassed, 
weary of life, attached to it only by the smiles of his 
child, Anderic confined himself more and more to his 
home, leaving his wife to her extravagances. She 
had reached that point where it had almost become a 
monomania. She recoiled before nothing to satisfy 
her craving for pleasure. It was all nothing but pomp 
and tinsel, however, in which the senses took no part, 
for her conduct and morals remained irreproachable. 
Was she waiting for Jamidoff? Was she following 
a plan, traced beforehand, which would permit her on 
the return of the prince to provoke an irreparable 
scene of violence which would rid her of her legal 
lord and master? The newspapers had announced 
that the prince was fighting for his sovereign in the 
Balkans, which explained his delay in throwing him- 
self at the feet of his idol. Should the same sove- 
reign, however, send this same prince on some other 
expedition, the idol ran the risk of finding her feet 
indefinitely deserted. But if Jamidoff suddenly reap- 
peared on the scene, as certain secret lines led her to 
believe, so high and precious a personage must be 
worthily received. Fernande’s madness could, there- 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


162 

fore, be explained by one of those combinations of 
wisdom which prove the harmony of antipodes. At 
last her efforts attained the result so patiently and 
joyously sought. Ruin threatened to overwhelm 
them. Only a relative ruin, however, for the old 
uncle had had the prudence to make the fortune inal- 
ienable, and little Germaine’s future was thereby 
assured. But their income for the next three years 
was already spent, not to speak of . overdue notes 
signed by Fernande in Keissman’s parlor, thanks to 
Sarah’s friendship, which absorbed two years more 
of revenue. This was in the spring of 1888. Warned 
by Prat, Anderic hastened to consult Gaulier. It was 
decided that the mansion in Paris must be rented, 
horses and carriages sold at once, and they must 
retire to Viellefort or Nivron and live economically. 
The notary promised to advance money to pay the 
present deficit, if Anderic agreed to spend five years at 
his country place. Fernande protested loudly against 
this arrangement. She would never consent to bury 
herself in the province ! But the count was immova- 
ble. 

“It is to Germaine’s interest,” he simply said. 

On a beautiful June evening the doors of Viellefort 
opened before this couple, for whom life had seemed 
so smiling at first, but to whom now only smiled a 
little girl of two-and-a-half years who was incapable 
of bringing back peace and happiness. 

The very night of their arrival, Prat witnessed a 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


163 

scene which gave him to understand, not without a 
certain satisfaction, that the Comte de Nivron would 
really be the master. Fernande was complaining bit- 
terly the loss of a maid whom her husband had dis- 
charged before their departure from Paris. 

“Do you imagine that I can dress without assist- 
ance?” she cried angrily. 

“I imagine that you can live at Viellefort as you 
lived at home with your parents. Our only servants 
will be a cook, a gardener, who will also act as coach- 
man, and Germaine’s nurse, Maggie. I am sorry if 
you do not approve of these arrangements, for they 
cannot be changed.” 

During the following week Fernande only left her 
room to visit the postoffice at Viellefort. Anderic 
shut himself up in his library which he left for a few 
hours only during the day, to wander around the cha- 
teau with Germaine, never daring outside of the park 
through fear of meeting the ladies of Fresnois. One 
day, however, he absented himself longer than usual, 
and when he returned in the evening, Maggie informed 
him that the comtesse had gone to Etretat, to join her 
parents. This flight did not affect him personally, 
but the egotism of this woman who was incapable of 
a little abnegation to repair her faults, the flight of 
the mother in search of pleasures far from her child, 
filled him with indignation. Weeks passed and Fer- 
nande did not even write. Winter was approaching. 
In Bourgogne, snow begins to fall in October. The 


164 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


wind howled through the deserted halls of Viellefort. 
Did she feel no anxiety concerning her daughter? 
Ah ! what would become of him if he were deprived 
of his child? But night and morning, as he bade her 
a joyful good morning or a sad good night, he received 
a bright smile from the angelic face, that seemed like 
a sunbeam, in this sad and lonely manor in which he 
had spent such a happy childhood. 

Germaine thrived in the pure country air. She 
spent the greater part of the day out of doors with 
Maggie or the count, enticing them in her willful way 
in the direction that pleased her. This little brain 
had observed that her father never wished to go far 
from the house, and they confined their rambles to 
the limits of the park; while with Maggie on the con- 
trary, she could wander toward the village, up and 
down the streets, where men and women stopped and 
talked to them, and the ragged children saluted them, 
for Maggie was not averse to a little gossiping “over 
there. ” 

It was thus that one day while Maggie was busy 
chatting with some peasants, Germaine noticed a 
large dog stretched on the church steps. She went 
up to touch it, but the animal growled and she drew 
back in fright. He then moved his ears backward 
and forward, which made her laugh, closed his eyes 
lazily, which encouraged her to touch him again. In 
an instant he stood up, towering above her like 
some big monster. Seized with fright once more, she 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


165 


ran into the open church door. Feeling that she 
was safe, she turned to look at her foe. But the dog 
was preparing to enter in his turn. Almost paralyzed 
with terror she flew down the aisle, not daring to look 
back. A profound silence surrounded her. In the 
sanctuary, a golden light suspended in space, cast 
fitful reflections on two angels, with extended wings, 
kneeling at each side of the tabernacle, on the rigid 
flowers that even the breath of prayer never animates, 
and on the six tall candlesticks of the altar. These 
things suddenly emerging from the semi-obscurity, 
whlie the sun filtered through a lateral window trans- 
forming the steps to the holy table into mosaic of blue 
and red, aroused the child’s curiosity. As a butterfly 
turns to the light, Germaine rushed forward, climbed 
the stone steps and uttering a joyful cry, extended 
her hands to seize the bright colors. “Maggie! Mag- 
gie!” she called, as she saw a person kneeling near 
her, whom she thought must be her nurse. But she 
soon realized her mistake. This person was gazing 
intently at her, following every movement. Some- 
what intimidated, the child stood still in this aureole 
of light, her hands uplifted, like a living cherubim. She 
ventured a smile, and her smile was returned. She 
then grew bolder, crept down the steps, and ap- 
proached slowly but surely. Suddenly two arms 
opened and she rushed within their embrace. To a 
child, every woman that opens her arms is a mother. 

^Seated on the unknown’s lap, her pretty curly head 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


1 66 

resting on the palpitating bosom, she remained 
motionless under the shower of kisses rained upon 
her. 

“What is your name?” asked a low sweet voice. 
“Germaine. And yours?” 

“Mine? — I am called madame.” 

The child, still curled upon the stranger’s knees, 
pointed to a statue above the altar, and said gravely: 
“Another madame. Who is she?” 

“The Blessed-Virgin. But you must not speak so 
loud my darling. We are in the house of God.” 

“Ah! who is he?” 

“Poor child!” said the lady as she joined the little 
hands together and kissed the pretty blue eyes, so like 
Anderic’s. 

“Now repeat what I say,” she went on. “O 
Lord—” 

“O Lord.” 

“Bless my father.” 

“My father,” she repeated, then quickly added. 
“And mamma, too?” 

“Yes, yes, my love.” 

“Madame, will you come out with me? There’s a 
big beast there.” 

“It is my dog.” 

“He is wicked!” 

“Not for good little girls.” 

“But come, madame.” 

At the door they met the Abbe Desnoux who stood 


A BROKEN CHAIN I 67 

dumfounded at sight of the child with her arms 
around Edith’s neck. 

“ What !” cried the astounded priest, “we are search- 
ing everywhere for the Comte de Nivron’s child, and 
find her with you !” 

“See, monsieur,” said Edith with tears in her eyes, 
“see what an angel she is — and how like him she is.” 

Anderic was at this very moment going through a 
terrible crisis. He was reading in a Parisian journal, 
an account of a great fete given by Prince Jamidoff, 
who had returned to France four months before. 
At the head of the list of invited guests was the 
Comtesse de Nivron, “always charming and beautiful, 
gay and full of entrain, dazzling with diamonds, 
fairy -like and divine;” the reporter described her in 
details with that dexterity of an auctioneer which is 
so agreeable to our elegant people. The article con- 
tained many delicious sous-entendus, adorable hints, 
in reference to the influence exercised by Fernande on 
Paris in general, and on one of the finest samples of 
perspective Newski in particular. Four months! 
That is at the time she had left him. What could he 
do? He cared little for his wife’s love, but should he 
allow her to drag his name in the mire? To allow 
her to remain longer in Paris would be complicity. 

On the other hand she would refuse to return to 
Viellefort. What could be done? Summoning Prat, 
he intrusted Germaine to his care, hastily packed a 
valise, and seven hours later found himself in Paris. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


I 68 

The Mac-Oneys were somewhat disconcerted when 
he burst into their home like a thunderbolt. The art- 
ist explained that as they had expected he would soon 
join their daughter, they had rented apartments for 
her where they would be more at liberty. He thanked 
the father, and ascertaining Fernande’s address hur- 
ried away. What passed between them must have 
been of a very grave character, for although the comt- 
esse had received him fully determined to provoke a 
final rupture, ttventy four hours later she was on her 
way to Viellefort with him. She feigned a great 
delight to find herself there once more, kissed her 
daughter, and heaven only knows how long this won- 
derful metamorphosis might have lasted had not a 
few lines from Sarah Keissman brought her back to 
her former self. She turned on Anderic in a parox- 
ysm of fury of which even he thought her incapable. 
It was a veritable tempest. 

“What is this I hear?” she cried. “You have lied 
to me! You are an assassin! I followed you here 
because you threatened to challenge him, to avoid a 
meeting. And you have fought, the prince is wounded, 
and lying at the point of death.” 

“I am even surprised that he should be still alive,” 
said Nivron coldly. 

“Coward ! — does a man fight when sure of killing! — ” 

“You prefer that I should fight with the certainty 
of being killed?” 

“Ah! perchance you flatter yourself that I still love 
you?” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


169 

“Not in the least. But I am determined that while 
I live, my name shall be respected by you. I am de- 
termined, and I swear it.” 

“Your name!” she hissed. “Ah! take it from me. 
You know how to do it. Do not fear; I will imitate 
the other one; I shall not utter one word against it. 
One can be heroic on certain occasions. The sacri- 
fice will be great. Your name? Did you respect it? 
Did you hesitate to falsely accuse the woman who 
bore it, to stain it in dishonoring her? I more than 
consent to a divorce; it is my most ardent desire. It 
is all plain sailing. Say that I am monstrous; you 
have shown me the way. I think as you thought; I 
am as weary of you as you were of her; I want my 
freedom as you wanted yours. It is all very simple, 
and big words will change nothing in so little and 
natural an affair. I will, therefore, declare my inten- 
tions: this very night I leave you. I go; I have 
enough of this; I have too much in fact.” 

“Beware. If you leave this house, you shall never 
return, whatever happens.” 

“If you have no other inducement to keep me 
here—” 

He paid no heed to her interruption but went on as 
if talking to himself: 

“Divorce? No, no — I committed, without know- 
ing it — but I will not try to excuse myself — I com 
mitted a crime, and it is one reason more why I should 
not commit another. It is not consideration for you 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


I 70 

that restrains me; it is my conscience. Besides, I 
have a daughter, and you are her mother. You may 
forget it, but I shall always remember it. Only, I 
declare, on the honor of a gentleman, that the mo- 
ment you leave my house, all will be over between us, 
and I shall consider you as one dead.” 

“Then you may assume mourning this very day.” 

Anderic passed a terrible night, haunted by a tempt- 
ation of suicide — a desire to put an immediate end to 
his sufferings. But Germaine? She had need of 
him. He was her only protector, her only guardian — 
the only one who loved her in all the world. When 
he was gone, who would watch over her? To reani- 
mate his failing courage, he went to her bedside. 
How pretty she was! And perhaps Fernande would 
leave her without a kiss even, in her haste to join 
Jamidoff, a dying man, whom he could not have the 
satisfaction of finishing on his death-bed — Besides, 
should this one die, a second — and then another would 
follow. The wind howled mournfully through the 
vast halls of the chateau, through the leafless branches 
without, seeming now like moaning voices, then break- 
ing into confused peals of laughter like a distant mock- 
ery, then again echoing phrases that pierced his heart 
like poisoned arrows: “I want my freedom as you 
wanted yours.” His freedom! Was he not bound 
hand and foot to a wretched creature? He dared not 
look before him, neither did he dare look behind — 
A fever burned within his veins. When Maggie had 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


171 

dressed the cinld, he retired to the library and took 
up a book. But the words danced before his eyes; a 
band of iron crushed his temples. He pressed his 
burning brow against the window-pane. Everything 
seemed dismal without. The November snow covered 
the ground with a thick, white carpet. Heavy clouds 
announced a continuation of the storm. But he 
wanted air; he was suffocating. He went out and 
walked aimlessly before him, trying to drive away his 
thoughts by physical weariness. In fact, he soon 
ceased to think; he only experienced the sensation 
of a dull pain, icy, like the air, which congested his 
brain. The snow began to fall once more. The 
whole forest now looked alike under its immaculate 
shroud. Where was he? But what mattered? He 
walked on without stopping, like a drunken man be- 
fore whom objects recede. He no longer knew the 
place, nor himself. His limbs trembled, his hands 
grasped the frozen branches. Soon it seemed to him 
that he was rooted to the spot; that an invisible de- 
mon of the forest had bound his feet to the ground. 
He made a supreme effort to disengage himself, and 
fell on his knees. A feeling of comfort then invaded 
him. How restful to be no longer obliged to stand. 
Slowly, as if drawn by the kisses of the snow, he 
stretched himself on the ground, his eyes fixed on the 
sky, watching the fall of that shower of swan’s-down. 
Then his eyes closed and the words of the morning — 
the words he had been unable to read — returned dis- 


172 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


tinctly to his mind, black in the midst of the white- 
ness in which he was going to sleep, and these words 
seemed to be: “You have shown me the way. I think 
as you thought. Your name? You may well speak 
of it. Did you respect it? Divorce — divorce — ” 

Edith de Rochemaure was walking slowly down the 
path that led to Bonnel’s lodge. It was the anniver- 
sary of Sylvain’s death, and neither the weather nor 
Johanna’s prayers could dissuade her from carrying 
words of consolation to the old man. Faust pre- 
ceded her. A few paces from the ravine that led to 
the game-keeper’s cottage, a dismal howl startled 
her. She called the dog to her ; but the only response 
was a still more sinister howl. 

Thinking something abnormal must have happened, 
she turned from the path and soon perceived Faust 
standing beside a human form, which the large, re- 
lentless snow-flakes were covering out of sight. In 
an instant she was t^y his side. A cry of mingled love, 
anguish and despair rang through the air. Brushing 
away the snow, she raised Anderic’s head — the iciness 
of the grave burned her fingers. As she crouched 
against the body, her lips against his lips, trying to 
warm the beloved features with her breath, she felt 
her heart sink, as she realized the inutility of her 
efforts. The count remained motionless and appar- 
ently lifeless. Then starting up wildly, she cast a 
look around her like a lioness at bay. No one was 
in sight; she was alone and without aid! But her 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


173 


cry had been heard. Through the snow-laden branches 
she now saw somebody appear in the door of the hut, 
and again she called wildly: 

“Bonnel! — Help ! — Bonnel!” 

The old man hastened in the direction of the voice, 
while she again kneeled in the snow and tried to raise 
the body in her arms. 

“Come quicker!” she commanded, as she heard the 
crackling of the branches. 

“You, mademoiselle!” 

In two strides he was at her side, but as he bent 
over Anderic, his face assumed the rigidity of marble. 

“Help me!” implored Edith. “What are you do- 
ing?” 

“I am looking.” 

Four years ago that very day, this man now lying 
in the snow, probably dead, had looked on impassi- 
ble on Sylvain’s agony. He grasped Edith by the 
arm, and this timid being, this slave who adored his 
mistress, who always spoke to her as if in invocation, 
for the first time in his life spoke to her in a com- 
manding tone: 

“Let us go away!” he said sternly. 

She looked into his face and understood the impla- 
cable thought of homicide in his mind, or at least the 
keen enjoyment of vengeance. With a gesture of 
delirium, she pushed him back and threw herself be- 
side Anderic. 

“Mademoiselle!” stammered the old servant. 


174 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


Without heeding him, she encircled the body in her 
arms, saying: 

“We shall die together.” 

“He killed my son,” protested Bonnel. 

The snow was still falling. Nothing stirred in the 
forest. Faust stood behind the old man and seemed 
to be waiting also. The sad spectacle of these three 
human beings swayed by the tempest of both passions 
and elements was one never to be forgotten. 

“Come!” said Bonnel at last, “stand aside; if he is 
still alive, I shall take him to his home.” 

“To your home,” she said rising. 

“Never !” 

“Viellefort is too distant. I wish him taken to 
your house. Sylvain wishes it.” 

A convulsive shudder shook his frame; bending 
down, he took the count in his robust arms and with- 
out a word carried him into his cottage and deposited 
him on the bed. 

“Now,” said he, “do what you please with him. 
I have repaid you for all I owed.” 

Anderic was not dead but very ill. The physician 
spoke of congestion of the brain, but avoided all 
direct answers to Edith’s anxious inquiries. A burn- 
ing fever consumed him, and he did not regain con- 
sciousness for a single moment. To Bonnel’s great 
displeasure and vexation it was declared impossible 
to remove the sick man to the chateau. Prat was in- 
formed of his master’s condition and soon appeared 
with the Abbe Desnoux. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


175 


“He will require the best of care / 7 declared the doc- 
tor, “and even then his recovery is doubtful. ” 

“Has Madame de Nivron been notified ?” asked 
Edith. 

“She left the chateau last night , 77 replied Prat. 

“Telegraph that her presence is indispensable . 77 

“Very well, madame . 77 

“And tell them at Fresnois not to expect me . 77 

She assumed possession of the house, of the patient, 
of everything. Was it not her life which was ebbing 
away on that bed, within these four walls, where, in 
spite of the anguish of anxiety, she felt an undefina- 
ble happiness invading her? The indulgent abbe 
guessed that a ray of sunshine had entered this lace- 
rated heart, but, believing that the countess would not 
delay in making her appearance, he remonstrated 
with Edith. She, however, cut him short by address- 
ing the doctor. 

“Do you think he will soon recover consciousness ? 77 
she asked. 

“Not as long as the fever lasts, and that will be 
two or three days at least . 77 

Edith bowed her head in acknowledgment of her 
thanks. Fernande would receive the dispatch that 
evening and would be there the next day. Heaven 
granted her twenty-four hours during which she could 
consecrate herself to Anderic and battle with death. 

The inappreciable Johanna would have violated all 
traditions if she had not appeared at the first news of 


176 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


the sinister event. She did not take the trouble to 
conceal her joy, and found the means of shocking the 
abbe even more than usual. 

“Humph!” she said byway of excuse, “it is no 
fault of mine if you don’t understand so simple a 
thing. The wisest thing he can do is to rejoin his 
fathers, whom I congratulate for having engendered 
him. Let him rid us of his presence, and I will for- 
give him from the bottom of my heart, since you 
pretend that we must forgive our enemies. But he 
must rid us of his person ! Edith will then no longer 
have a third, nor even her first reason to refuse that 
poor Commandant de Saint-Avene. You know the 
first reason?” 

“But mademoiselle, at such a time — ” 

“She loves this scoundrel. Just fancy! Well, 
when he is no more, she cannot continue to love him, 
can she?” 

Edith was too much absorbed in her task — which 
consisted chiefly in contemplating her charge — to pay 
any attention to her aunt’s chatter. But this contin- 
ual bustle was inadmissible in a sick room, and the 
abbe realized that it was necessary to entice the gar- 
rulous old maid away. 

“You are not going already, abbe?” she said. “Very 
well, I will accompany you as far as the church. I 
feel so happy, so happy!” 

At last Edith had him to herself, to herself alone, 
like a little child without any will of his own ! An- 



“ Brushing away the snow she raised Anderic’s head.” — (p. 172.) 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


I 77 


deric passed a bad night; the fever increased and the 
delirium augmented, giving more strength to the voice 
that continually repeated Fernande’s name with 
heart-rending accents which Edith took for appeals. 
He was living over the preceding night; his night- 
mare, divided between his desire of suicide and his 
love for Germaine, and the anguish brought on by the 
accumulation of disasters under which his body and 
soul had succumbed. The pale features of the young 
woman remained impassible. She changed the ice on 
his burning forehead, gave him his medicine at stated 
hours and appeared to hear nothing, understand noth- 
ing. But now and then a tear pearled her long lashes 
and dropped on Anderic’s hand. 

Although the horses waited all day at the railway 
station, Fernande did not come, nor did she even 
send a message to explain the motive of her absence 
or to inquire for news. Edith experienced a singular 
feeling of disgust, mingled, however, with a senti- 
ment of relief. 

The field was left to her, and she took advantage of 
it by never leaving the bedside, allowing no one to 
replace her, scarcely tolerating the aid of Prat or Bon- 
nel. In a few days, Anderic was out of immediate 
danger, and in one month the danger had completely 
disappeared. One day on awakening from a deep 
slumber, his eyes opened with a ray of intelligence in 
them. Consciousness was returning, for he recognized 
12 


i7« 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


Prat and Bonnel, and observed a shadow disappear- 
ing into the next room. 

“Who is that?’ 7 were his first words. 

As no one answered, he looked around him and re- 
sumed his questions. 

“Prat,” he said, “I am not at Viellefort?” 

“No, Monsieur le Comte.” 

“Where am I?” 

“In Bonnel’s cottage. Monsieur remembers Bon- 
nel, the game-keeper. ” 

“Yes, yes, I remember. Sylvain’s father.” Then 
his eyes wandered to the old game-keeper’s face and 
he added: “I begged you to forgive me; have you for- 
given me?” 

Believing he was becoming delirious once more, 
Prat approached the bed, while Edith opened the 
door slightly and placed her finger on her lips to com- 
mand silence, that the awakening of his thoughts 
might not be confused by troubling answers. It was 
not of Bonnel but of Edith whom he had asked for- 
giveness in sending back Sylvain’s letter, but at this 
moment, in the depth of his heart, he bowed before 
both. 

The game-keeper received the explanation later on, 
and it was the occasion of an exciting scene between 
himself and the count. 

Anderic’s illness had not appeased the old man’s 
hatred, and he now found many opportunities to give 
vent to his feelings as Edith, could no longer watch 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


179 


over Anderic, except during the night or when delirium 
returned. She seldom left the house, however, but 
remained in an adjoining room which she only left 
now and then to kiss her aunt outside the door, as that 
irascible personage had been banished for intemper- 
ance of language. Bonnel never failed to take ad- 
vantage of these short absences, and as strength re- 
turned, Anderic realized these hostilities more clearly. 

“You had no right to send that letter to Made- 
moiselle Edith,” declared Bonnel. “It was the secret 
of the dead. Mademoiselle never knew that my Syl- 
vain adored her all his life.” 

One day there had been a long silence between 
them, when Anderic suddenly observed: 

“It was very kind of you to care forme in your own 
house, monsieur.” 

“It was very much against my will,” replied the 
old man. 

“You deserve all the more praise for your kindness. 
But tell me, why I am here and not at Viellefort.” 

“Because you were taken ill here and not at Viel- 
lefort.” 

“Here!” 

“Or near here.” 

He tried to reconstruct the past but could not suc- 
ceed. Germaine’s name came incessantly to his lips, 
but he never uttered that of Fernande. She seemed 
completely forgotten; but he indulged in long reveries, 
trying to guess who that shadow could be which had 


I 80 A BROKEN CHAIN 

so suddenly disappeared the other day, and which he 
thought he again saw every night in blissful dreams. 

When Germaine was brought in, he took her in his 
arms, covered her with kisses, complimented her on 
her good looks, but breathed not a word about her 
mother, as if he thought it only natural that she should 
be accompanied by Maggie. 

“I see you take good care of her,” he said to the 
nurse. “Thank you.” 

Tired of being quiet, the child now claimed her lib- 
erty. Her friend was in the next room and she 
wanted to see her. 

“Bring her in,” said her father, thinking it must be 
some little girl from the village, “then you can remain 
longer with me.” 

Germaine jumped down from the bed and darted 
like an arrow to the next room, but returned, in an 
instant, pouting. 

“She will not come,” she said. 

“I frighten her, because I am not her father.” 

“No, you don’t frighten her, because while you 
were asleep yesterday, she held me up to kiss you.” 

“What! the little girl?” 

“It is madame.” 

“Come, mademoiselle, you are tiring Monsieur le 
Comte,” interrupted Maggie, obeying a signal from 
Prat. 

“No, no, don’t take her away. What were you 
saying, my darling?” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


1 8 1 

But he was alone; Maggie had carried off Germaine. 

Somewhat fatigued by the emotions of this first in- 
terview, he fell into a peaceful slumber. When he 
awoke, it was night. The fire cast flickering red 
patches on the floor and a night lamp glimmered 
faintly in the room. The curtains around his bed 
were half-closed, and near him, in the shadow, was 
seated a woman, her head enveloped in a mantilla 
that concealed her face. Was not this his dream of 
every night? He raised himself to draw back the 
curtains, but he was anticipated. The woman was 
already at the bedside, standing in the shadow of the 
curtains, asking him in a low voice, almost in a whis- 
per: 

“Are you thirsty? do you want anything?” 

“Thank you.” 

“Now, go to sleep.” 

“No, I must thank you.” 

“You must not speak. Go to sleep.” 

Soft white hands — the hands of his dream — touched 
lightly, raised his pillows and rearranged the cover- 
ings. Then the woman returned to her seat in the 
shadow, and silence again reigned — a silence through 
which he heard a sigh. He could see through the 
opening of the curtains, only the bottom of a plain 
black dress. Who was she? Germaine’s friend, per- 
haps? His overexcited imagination searched the past. 
Who could feel enough interest in him to remain 
there, motionless in prayer, the whole night, every 


182 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


night? Whence came such devotion? There were a 
dozen families in the neighborhood who had enter- 
tained more or less friendly relations with his uncle. 
Could it be some of them paying a debt of gratitude? 
But who could it be? At the sight of suffering, nearly 
all women instinctively become sisters of charity. 
She was most assuredly one, unless she were an angel. 
And this thought of angels brought back the remem- 
brance of Edith, the reproaches of Bonnel, because he 
had revealed Sylvain’s secret. He had believed she 
was aware of it when not the least suspicion had 
crossed her mind. Oh! purity of purities! this was 
the woman whose name he had stained like a cow- 
ard ! A painful sigh escaped him. Again the curtains 
parted, and his mysterious guardian angel reappeared, 
bending over him anxiously. 

“What is it?”' she asked. 

“I am suffering,” he replied. 

“Where?” 

“In my heart. Speak to me; I want to hear your 
voice.” 

“Hush! go to sleep.” 

As if she dominated his will, his eyes closed and 
sleep returned. He was no longer master of his 
thoughts; they belonged entirely to the unknown. 

When he awoke at the first streaks of dawn, his 
first movement was to draw back the curtains. He 
would surprise her, perhaps. But he fell back on his 


A BROKEN CHAIN I 83 

pillow disappointed. She was there no longer; her 
seat was occupied by the Abbe Desnoux. 

“What is her name, Monsieur le Cure?” asked An- 
deric in a tone of supplication. 

“Charity, my child ” 


CHAPTER X 


When Anderic found himself at Viellefort once 
more, he realized more clearly his sad position. 
Death had been overcome, but it left him weak and 
defenseless at a formidable moment, his life wrecked, 
his heart devastated. Germaine still remained, ’ tis 
true — a fragile and delicate waif of the wreck. The 
thought of her calmed his terrors as he faced the 
future filled with all the bitterness reserved to those 
who have ruined their own and others’ existences. 
He never remembered Fernande without a shudder 
and a feeling of supreme contempt and disgust. For 
four years she had struck blow after blow without 
wearing out his constancy. Little by little, under 
these blows, all that bound him to this degrading pas- 
sion, egotism, inconstancy, need of pleasures, had fal- 
len away, shred by shred, under the hand of sorrow. 
For four years he had endured incessant torture; he 
emerged from the ordeal broken down, but cured 
effectually. She had stained his name, but, in the 
dregs of shame, he imbibed a deeper and livelier sense 
of honor. He would not seek oblivion in the dissipa- 
tions of other days, but in duty which he had so long 
neglected. He would devote himself to Germaine’s 
184 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


I8 5 


education. He would make of his daughter his 
unique horizon. This praiseworthy determination 
had a beneficial effect on him. Paternal love, how- 
ever, cannot fill exclusively the soul of a man of 
thirty. In his hours of trouble there arose the vision 
of a tall, graceful form seated in the shadow or bend- 
ing over his bed. His heart beat fast as he again 
felt the contact of two soft hands on his brow and lips. 
In his continual isolation, the mysterious presence he 
evoked thrilled him, while his heart, like Lazarus, 
awaited a divine voice to resuscitate it. But he cour- 
ageously drove away these recollections, frightened 
to find himself longing again for the joys of a new 
sorrow. 

From his window, far away in the distance, he 
could see Fresnois with its coquettish belt of old 
shade-trees. There Edith lived. This brought him 
back to duty whenever he was in danger of forgetting. 
Whenever the interior struggle recommenced, he sent 
for Germaine, placed her on his knees, and cooled 
his throbbing temples with her innocent kisses. But 
the child soon wearied and ran away. 

“Where are you going?” he would ask. 

“Outside.” 

“You leave me alone?” 

“But I must go out and play, papa,” she would say, 
laughing gayly as she closed the door behind her. 

Then the room, brightened for a. few moments by 
the childish voice, returned to its gloomy silence, and 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


1 86 

once more he found himself alone with his sorrow, 
with no one to confide his anguish, consumed by that 
longing for a strong and pure affection which takes 
possession of us in maturer years. 

The convalescence was long, retarded perhaps by 
these conflicting emotions. The abbe made a few 
visits, as rare as they were unprofitable, for the good 
priest was extremely reserved; and beside, it is not 
certain that he came of his own free will. Anderic 
would certainly have welcomed him with more enthu- 
siasm had he suspected that a hidden solicitude had 
transformed the tactiturn ecclesiastic into an emissary 
commissioned to observe and give an account. 

About the middle of April he was able to venture 
out. His walks were limited at first, but the doctor 
finally declared that all care was superfluous, and An- 
deric went out joyously on his first extended expedi- 
tion. 

In the village the peasants stopped to speak to him. 

“So you have recovered at last, monsieur?” said 
one. 

“Yes, my friend.” 

“Ah! you were nearly gone. No more strength 
than a bird. We expected to hear of your death 
every day.” 

“Indeed! it was not the doctor who cured you,” 
broke in another. 

“He deserves a great deal of praise, nevertheless.” 

“Perhaps!” 

“And I am under great obligations to him.” 


A BROKEN CHAIN I 87 

The peasants shook their heads with an air of in- 
credulous approbation. 

“Who helped him?” asked the count. 

“Ah! you know very well.” 

“Tell me, all the same, it will please me,” he added, 
hoping to hear the name of the unknown. 

“It was good nursing that saved you,” was the re- 
ply, accompanied by knowing looks, as if they could 
tell a great deal more if they wished. 

Now or never was the time to learn. Anderic was 
on the point of asking directly, when the general at- 
tention was attracted by a passing carriage. 

“Madame de Servan and her brother goingto Fres- 
nois,” whispered one, nudging his neighbor and wink- 
ing. 

Troubled by the sudden apparition of Sainte-Avene, 
the count walked away slowly, not daring to question 
any further. With his knowledge of these people, he 
felt that they were aware of something which inter- 
ested him, and he felt humiliated to appear before 
their eyes as a stranger to what concerned himself. 
Sainte-Avene! Sainte-Avene at Fresnois! and ac- 
companied by Madame de Servan; it seemed rather 
significant. He resumed his way toward the park of 
Viellefort. From-there he could see the road stretch- 
ing away like a white thread at the foot of the hil- 
lock, winding to the extremity of the- plain where the 
towers of Fresnois arose above the trees. The car- 
riage was still rolling on, enveloped in a cloud of dust, 


i88 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


and soon seemed a mere black speck in the distance. 
Would it pass the avenue and, instead of turning, take 
another direction? The peasants might have been 
mistaken. Suddenly the black speck turned and van- 
ished behind the curtain of old elms that made a bor- 
der of verdure of two kilometers in front of the grace- 
ful dwelling. His brow darkened, his wild gaze re- 
mained lost in the horizon, and he was overcome by 
an unreasonable rage. Sainte-Avene at Fresnois! 
What stupidity, what insolence, and alas! what love 
prompted this man to present himeslf once more, after 
being rejected! Four years, it is true, had passed 
since then, four years — a century! — during which 
Edith might have changed. The presence of Madame 
de Servan proved a degree of intimacy which did not 
formerly exist, and that if Sainte-Avene was still in 
love his intentions were honorable. But why should 
he concern himself with Sainte-Avene’s affairs? He 
had loyally told the truth, done his duty, paid Edith 
a just tribute of respect, that no one in the future 
should accuse her wrongfully; now he was a 
stranger, perhaps the enemy, or at least a man whose 
name was banished from her heart and memory. 
And still he stood under the ardent sun watching, 
waiting, determined to see. Then, in his great desire to 
learn something, he decided to await Sainte-Avene’s 
return, to scrutinize his face, to discover by his coun- 
tenance the welcome he had received, if he were 
happy. He started to run wildly like a child, taking 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


189 

the shortest way, jumping over ditches and hedges, 
driven on by a painful curiosity. Panting, he at last 
stopped near the grotto of Peuyrenard, in the very 
midst of the Rochemaure estate. There, hidden be- 
hind a moss-covered rock, near the turn of the road, 
he could watch at his ease. Before he had recovered 
his breath, and wiped the perspiration from his brow, 
he was startled by the sound of approaching footsteps. 
He turned hastily and saw the form of a woman 
emerging from a path onto the road. She glided along 
like a sylph, her head bowed, enveloped in a long 
mantle that fell from her shoulders to the hem of her 
plain black dress. Anderic’s heart almost stood still. 
It was she, the guardian angel, the mystery of his 
dreams, the dream itself living and walking before 
him. He experienced a delicious sensation — the sen- 
sation of the real replacing the intoxicating visions of 
hallucination, fresh emotion like the emotion of a 
first love. In one bound, he is at her side. 

“ Madame! — in pity — madame!” he gasped, pant- 
ing and trembling in every limb. 

She started, extended her hands as if to save her- 
self from falling, and stopped. He stood stunned, 
speechless, as if turned to stone, before the pale face 
and large black eyes of Edith. He believed he must 
have been deceived by a similarity of dress and figure. 
He searched for a phrase that would draw them from 
their embarrassment; but he could find none. Edith 
was the first to recover herself. 


190 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“Pray, replace your hat, Monsieur de Nivron,” she 
said calmly; “you are not fully recovered and you 
must not be imprudent. If I were still your nurse, I 
would not allow you to indulge in so much exercise.” 

“Then it was really you,” he stammered as a tear 
moistened his eyes. 

“You must not be angry with me; I found you dying 
in the snow.” 

“Angry with you! when my gratitude — ” 

“Which you owe only to God.” 

“Only to God? — ” emotion choked his utterance, 
and he added in a broken voice: “Yes, from me, all 
must seem a burden to you, even my gratitude.” 

Edith opened her lips to reply, but closed them 
again without uttering a word. Her beautiful face 
flushed, she shook her head, waved her hand grace- 
fully and glided away, leaving him bewildered. 
The fairy of his dreams, the charm of his delirium, 
the sweet vision that cheered his solitude, renewed 
his youth, cast celestial rays into his gloomy life, was 
Edith, the misunderstood, abandoned, outraged wife, 
who had been rejected ignominously like a dis- 
graced, tarnished creature! — ” 

In the drawing-room at Viellefort, Germaine was 
lying on the carpet at her father’s feet. 

“Why do you not not speak to me, my darling? Are 
you asleep?” asked the count. 

“No, papa,” answered the child. 

“Get up then, my love, it is time to go to bed.” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


I 9 I 

“I am not sleepy.” 

“What are you doing then?” 

“I am lonesome.” 

“With all those toys?” 

“They don’t amuse me at all.” 

The child’s eyes were fixed into space, searching — 
for what? He asked himself what could amuse little 
girls, and wondered if they were like grown-up women, 
impossible to amuse always. Germaine’s grave and 
sad countenance gave no key to her inner thoughts; 
she did not weep, and yet one felt that tears lurked 
behind the bright, dilated pupils. 

“Has any one grieved you?” he resumed. 

“Oh, no indeed!” She protested. 

“Is Maggie always kind to you?” 

“Oh! yes, very kind.” 

“Why are you lonesome, then? Something is surely 
troubling my little girl.” 

He took her on his knees and rocked her to sleep. 
Having carried her to Maggie, he returned to the draw- 
ing-room where the child had just brought back to 
his mind Fernande, the vain and inconsistent creature 
he had tried to banish from his thoughts. One thing 
was clear to Anderic: something was wanting to Ger- 
maine, and this something, unknown yet obscurely 
desired, was a mother. His own loving solicitude 
could not fill the void made by the mother’s absence, 
nor replace the feminine caresses which children 
instinctively long for. 


192 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“Ah!” he sighed, making an involuntary compari- 
son, “Edith would not have abandoned her thus.” 

His thoughts now invariably reverted to her. He 
again saw her as Sylvain Bonnel, with untiring affec- 
tion, had tried to make him see her, in those days 
when they had wandered together through Africa. 
He now understood her virtues, modesty, and abso- 
lute devotion, her complete self-abnegation and the 
brightness of her intelligence. How blind he had 
been! And how inferior to the poet! But then was 
he not the most wretched and contemptible of men? 
But as he thought of Sylvain, jealousy mingled with his 
suffering. Edith was now aware of Sylvain’s worship 
and would judge them both, the one with admiration, 
the other with implacable justice. He might have 
always reigned as sovereign in that heart, even 
though he gave no love, if only he had allowed him- 
self to be loved. He had dethroned himself joyfully, 
impatiently with the stupid obstinacy of a child, or 
of the patient deprived of something injurious. And 
for whom had he done all this? For an infamous 
woman! He had built up his misfortune with his 
own hands; if he was expiating his follies, whom 
could he blame? He compared the last few years of 
his life with the few months he had lived with Edith. 
His passion for Fernande had blinded him; he consid- 
ered himself the most wretched of men when he had 
been the most fortunate. Never a reproach, an 
instant of ill-humor. Until the hour of rupture, she 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


193 


had surrounded him with a tender and discreet solici- 
tude; and knowing her nobility of character, her 
purity of sentiments, he had nevertheless walked 
straight into the trap set by Fernande! How had 
she avenged herself? By saving his life. She had 
watched and nursed him, and then vanished. Ah ! 
it was only just that to her he should be nothing more 
than one of those miserable beings whom angels alone 
will consent to aid. 

“Why did you conceal the name of the one who 
nursed me at the Ravin?” he asked Prat, when the 
latter came to take his orders for the next day. 

The bewildered steward knew not what to reply. 
He had been warned to be silent, and beside, feared 
that the discovery would be anything but pleasant to 
the count. But now that he was driven to the wall, 
he concealed nothing, giving the whole history from 
the time Edith had found him lying apparently life- 
less in the snow. When he came to the dispatch 
sent to Fernande at the beginning of his illness, 
Anderic took it as a proof of Edith’s complete indif- 
ference. She had been moved by pity only — that 
pity inseparable from her nobility of soul. He wished, 
however, to convince himself. She had loved him so. 

“Was she sad as she watched over me?” he asked. 

“No, on the contrary, monsieur.” 

It must be so. She had merely accomplished a 
common-place duty. Like a sister of charity, she had 
retained her impassible serenity. 

9 


194 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“Was she gay?” he resumed. 

“Rather. Especially when the physician declared 
that monsieur would not die.” 

“Ah!” 

“She even banished Mademoiselle Johanna from the 
house on that memorable day, for it was a memora- 
ble day to us.” 

“Why did she banish her?” 

“I beg monsieur’s pardon, but at first Mademoiselle 
Johanna was overjoyed at the prospect of monsieur’s 
death.” 

“Gaulier was right,” muttered Anderic to himself; 
“the aunt is malicious and resentful. You were say- 
ing that Mademoiselle Johanna was delighted at the 
thought of my death.” 

“When the doctor reassured us, she flew into a 
rage, oh ! such a rage — I really hope she was not sin- 
cere.” 

“I hope not,” said Anderic laughing heartily, with- 
out the least remorse for being the involuntary cause 
of her wrath. 

“Then her niece ordered her out of the house and 
forbade her to cross the threshold as long as Mon- 
sieur le Comte remained under Bonnel’s roof.” 

This threw a different light on matters. She 
might be indifferent, but she allowed no one to abuse 
him in her presence, evidently. 

“Still they are good friends?” resumed the count. 

“Oh, yes. Only Mademoiselle Johanna wants to 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


195 


have her own way and that is not always pleasant to 
her niece. She has persecuted her incessantly for the 
last four years; to make her marry. She invites a lot 
of people, and, as Monsieur le Comte is aware, 
Mademoiselle Edith has many admirers. The most 
serious of them, however, seems to be the Command- 
ant Sainte-Avene who is stationed at Dijon. This 
afternoon again — ” 

“Evidently,” interrupted the count impatiently, 
“Madame Edith de Rochemaure encourages his atten- 
tions or he would not come so frequently.” 

“Oh! monsieur, she encourages no one. She is 
never at home when M. de Sainte-Avene is expected. 
She is too good a Catholic to marry again, and it is a 
pity. So young and to live alone, without affection — ” 

Anderic did not reply. But he could have stran- 
gled the steward for this last observation. The words 
rang in his ears throughout the whole night. “So 
young, alone, without affection!” Was he not in the 
same position, and yet no one thought of pitying 
him. In what respect would Sainte-Avene be a con- 
solation? In spite of himself his regrets and remorse 
changed into the most unreasonable jealousy. He 
vowed never to set foot in the park, of Fresnois, and 
when he went out he always took the opposite direc- 
tion; but country roads have a curious way of crossing 
each other and leading the absent-minded precisely 
where they had no wish to go. When he roused 
himself from his reveries, he invariably found himself 


196 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


at one of the gates of Fresnois, or in the park at a 
point which Sainte-Avene must pass on his return. 
Often he concealed himself that he might catch a 
glimpse of Edith. How beautiful she was ! And to 
think he had had under his eyes, nay, under his lips, 
this young face which bore suffering like a royal dia- 
dem! She was always alone, with Faust, or escorted 
by Bonnel, visiting the poor and the sick; and this was 
her life, her pleasures of every day. Johanna re- 
ceived many visitors and in turn visited the neighbor- 
ing chateaux frequently; Edith, in her black dress, in 
her eternal mourning, avoided the world. Anderic 
noticed with secret delight that as soon as a carriage 
was seen in the avenue that led to Fresnois, she 
hastened down the path that ran along the brook. 
He followed her closely, in an ecstasy of admiration, 
until she reached the entrance of the grotto of Puyre- 
nard. He was often tempted to follow her into that 
refuge, to speak to her, to say — ah ! what could he 
say ? Tell her of his tardy love, acknowledge his faults, 
kneel at her feet? She would only reply: “ Your faults, 
my virtues and, beauty, would you see them now if you 
had not suffered through Fernande?” Whatever he 
might do or say, he could never convince her of his sin- 
cerity. This was the most bitter part of his expiation. 

“Look out there !” suddenly cried a voice. 

“What stupidity!” angrily exclaimed Anderic as he 
stepped aside to avoid being run over by the careless 
rider. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


197 


“What do you mean by stupidly throwing yourself 
under my horses hoofs?” retorted Sainte-Avene, then 
recognizing Anderic he added: “The deuce, my dear 
friend, you came within an inch of being run over.” 

“You have a fine way of guiding a horse,” continued 
Nivron. 

“Ah! has Monsieur le Comte de Nivron the pre- 
sumption of giving others lessons on propriety and 
good manners? It would be rather ridiculous!” 

Anderic started as if he had received a blow; seizing 
the bridle, he forced the animal almost to his knees, 
and stood face to face with his adversary. 

“No more so than to teach others to stand up when 
they roll under the table,” cried the count furiously. 

At this moment a heavy hand was laid on his arm 
and a calm voice said: 

“Good day, gentlemen. Monsieur de Sainte- 
Avene, Mademoiselle Johanna de Rochemaure is 
expecting you.” 

Anderic dropped the bridle at the sight of Abbe 
Desnoux. 

“Thank you, Monseiur le Cure, I am on my way 
there,” cried Sainte-Avene, then turning to Nivron, 
he added coldly: “We shall meet again.” 

“Monsieur,” resumed the abbe, as the officer disap- 
peared, “will you do me a favor? Do not quarrel 
with M. de Sainte-Avene, and give him no occasion 
to quarrel with you.” 

“It would please me to oblige you,” replied the 


198 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


count, “but your request comes too late. That gen- 
tleman nearly trampled on me and, as an apology, 
apostrophizes me as stupid. Really, I owed him no 
thanks.” 

The abbe was mopping his face and looking ex- 
tremely embarrassed. His evident perplexity angered 
Anderic who said: 

“You seem to take great interest in him, Monsieur 
l’Abbe? 

“The interest I take in all mankind,” replied the 
priest. “Only in this instance there is something 
more. It is a delicate subject, I assure you, monsieur 
— certain positions are extremely painful — and it 
would be cruel to aggravate them. A quarrel be- 
tween yourself and M. de Sainte-Avene would provoke 
gossip — draw attention to a person — how can I say 
it? — to a person — ” 

“Who is absolutely innocent,” broke in Anderic. 

“An angel, monsieur.” 

“A martyr, rather.” 

The abbe could scarcely believe his ears. Was it 
really the Comte de Nivron who spoke thus of Edith? 
he who had condemned the young woman for bearing 
a cross of shame through life.” 

“Then you understand,” insinuated the good priest. 

“Yes, it is the least I can do for her,” declared 
Anderic. “You may rest assured that whatever M. de 
Sainte-Avene may do, there will be nothing between 
us.” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


199 


The next day, Anderic was surprised to see the 
officer coming toward Viellefort, and his astonishment 
was still greater when he heard his words of apology. 

One of the prettiest pages of one of the finest 
works of Feuillet came immediately to his mind. He 
remembered that passage in the “Romance of a Poor 
Young Man,” where Bevallan comes to offer an apol- 
ogy to Maxime Odiot, and thought: “Does he too 
come to announce to me his marriage?” 

“My dear friend,” continued Sainte- Avene, “I have 
undertaken a queer errand. As I am a poor diplo- 
mat, I shall come to the point at once. I shall first 
confide to you that your presence is displeasing to 
your neighbors. I know not why, but the fact is that 
your stay here is very embarrassing to them.” 

“Since you enjoy their confidence, you may be able 
to tell me in what I inconvenience them. I met Ma- 
dame Edith de Rochemaure once by chance, but since 
then she has not again found me in her path.” 

“Oh! it is not she who desires your departure.” 

“It is the aunt? What an amiable person!” 

Anderic was radiant. He must exercise some in- 
fluence over Edith since Johanna wanted to drive him 
away. 

“Yes, it is the aunt. And she gives you rendez- 
vous at the Ravin at two o’clock.” 

“Can she have the intention of assassinating me?” 

“I believe she wishes to explain what you asked 
me a moment ago.” 


200 


A BROKFN CHAIN 


“Why, my presence inconveniences her?” 

“Yes.” 

“I shall go at once.” 

Johanna had grown slightly older, but her petulance 
4was still as young and vigorous. He recognized her 
presence in the cottage by the noise he heard from 
without. The doors slammed, the chairs danced, and 
he was received amidst a general clatter and bustle 
of everything. 

“Monsieur,” she began, “had it not been for a very 
grave motive, I should never have addressed you a 
word in all my life. My niece saved your life recently, 
and you cannot deny that she has some claims to 
your gratitude.” 

“I acknowledge that* I am under great obligations 
to her, but she has done me the honor to tell me that 
I owed gratitude to God only.” 

“Simple politeness, monsieur. . My niece is young 
and beautiful.” 

“I am aware of it, mademoiselle.” 

“Her existence cannot be eternally sacrificed to a 
barbarous-prejudice. You have freed yourself; pray, 
have the kindness to free her in her turn.” 

“I beg you to explain yourself.” 

“Divorce has dissolved your civil marriage; but 
according to the outrageous customs of this country, 
the religious marriage is still valid. In fact, in Edith’s 
eyes it is the only valid one.” 

“She is right,” said Anderic with emotion. “Ac- 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


201 


cording to the laws of the church, Edith is still my 
wife.” 

“Your church may claim what it pleases; a woman 
without a husband is no wife, and I certainly don’t 
consider you as her husband. In short, your church 
denounces divorce but grants separations, if only there 
is money enough. I shall not look at the price. 
You do the work, monsieur, and I shall pay.” 

“Mademoiselle,” replied Anderic gravely, “you are 
doubly mistaken; first in believing in the possibility 
of purchasing the compliance of the court of Rome, 
and then in imagining that if the thing were feasible 
I would assist you. It is my duty to warn you that, 
on the contrary, I would oppose it with all my 
strength. There exists but one link between Edith 
and myself, and since I have learned the importance 
she attaches to it, it has become doubly dear to me.” 

“Ah! indeed? What nonsense are you talking 
about? I have been told that you had brain fever, 
and do not doubt it now. There existed another link 
between you and Edith; what has become of it, pray? 
Who has severed it? You don’t expect me to be- 
lieve your story about Sylvain Bonnel? I am not the 
president of the court. The son of our game-keeper, 
an author! No, you wanted Fernande. The proof 
is that you took her. And to get her you had to rid 
yourself of Edith. What more do you want? Money?” 

“Say no more, mademoiselle, or I shall forget that 
you are her aunt.” 


202 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“Forget whatever you please, but do what I ask 
you. Come, monsieur, do a generous action, if you 
are capable of it. She has never done you any harm; 
make her happy. ” 

“M. de Sainte- Avene has informed me that you de- 
sired my departure. I consent to go, but consent to 
nothing more.” 

“What good would be effected by your absence, even 
though you went to the other end of the world? 
There would still be that religious affair, that ac- 
cursed barrier between herself and happiness.” 

“What happiness?” 

“Marrying a man of her choice.” 

“Never!” 

“Why not?” 

“Because I love her! Because on the day I volun- 
tarily lost her, I was mad; because never while I live, 
shall I leave her free to give herself to another.” 

Anderic emphasized this declaration with so much 
energy, his eyes flashed with so much fury, his coun- 
tenance expressed such violent love and cruel despair, 
that Johanna was bewildered and speechless for a 
moment. 

“Well!” she said finally, recovering her voice, “here 
is a nice state of affairs.” Then as if struck by a sud- 
den inspiration she shrugged her shoulders incredu- 
lously and added tauntingly: “Tut, tut, tut! mere 
phrases! You love her?” 

“More than life.” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


203 


“Then why do you refuse her happiness?” 

“At the expense of my own!” he cried. 

“You are selfish.” 

Anderic winced. She was right. He was selfish, 
always selfish. Ah! the dreary task of again crush- 
ing the heart when life is already strewn with so many 
ruins! He hesitated, refused no longer, ready to 
make the sacrifice. Whatever destiny was in store 
for him, nothing in the world could make Edith his 
wife before men although she was his before God. 
He was married! And to whom? — alas! 

“What have you decided monsieur?” asked Johanna. 

“I will try to obtain from Rome what you ask of 
me,” he said in a choked voice. 

“Then let it be as soon as possible.” 

“As soon as possible. But on one condition.” 

“I agree to it beforehand.” 

“Edith must ask me herself.” 

“Monsieur, you might as well refuse at once,” re- 
plied the old maid dryly as she turned on her heel. 


CHAPTER XI 


A feverish existence now began for Anderic. He 
experienced all the grief and disappointment of a lost 
possession, the fears and anxieties of the vanquished 
to whom is not even left the right of supplication. 
There was nothing to guide him in the darkness in 
which he moved. The only bright spot in this som- 
ber night was the unconquerable virtue of Edith. He 
would have submitted to the most frightful tortures to 
unveil the thoughts hidden beneath the white brow of 
the young woman. Her attitude proved clearly that 
she had no wish to meet him. Each morning he went 
to church to contemplate her from afar; she did not 
even seem to notice his presence. He followed her 
to the cemetery and watched her as she placed the 
flowers on her parents’ graves, but when he tried to 
approach her, she had a way of returning his bow 
that rooted him to the spot. 

“You are losing your time,” said Bonnel roughly, 
when Anderic visited the Ravin in spite of the hatred 
of which he knew himself to be the object. 

“Oh! no, since I see her! — Has she said any- 
thing to you? You are her confidant.” 

“To begin with, I am not in her confidence, and 
if I were, you would learn nothing from me.” 

204 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


205 


“M. de Sainte-Avene still calls at the chateau.” 

“And what good do you suppose that will do him?” 

“Through her aunt’s influence she might — ” 

“She pays no more heed to her aunt’s vagaries 
than she does to your profound bows at the church. 
She is totally indifferent to it all.” 

Anderic could draw nothing more from the old man, 
but it was a happiness to be in that room, near the 
bed where she had nursed him. 

A grave incident unexpectedly changed the face of 
matters. One night the count feared his daughter 
would die. He was seated at her bedside while she 
slept, when a convulsive shudder seemed to pass 
through her frame. 

Suddenly Germaine started up, her little hands 
clinched, her eyes burning with fever, and gave a 
hoarse cough as if she were choking. 

“Help! help!” cried the distracted father. 

Maggie rushed into the room and raised the child 
from the bed, but she still continued to gasp for breath. 

“She is dying!” cried the count. “The doctor! 
Germaine, Germaine, my darling! listen to me, speak 
to me!” 

In a few moments the entire household assembled, 
and all was confusion. Servants were running here 
and there, the father was wringing his hands in de- 
spair, while Prat and ’Maggie stood apart in consulta- 
tion. 

“What are you all doing?” exclaimed the count. 
“Why don’t you go for a doctor?” 


20 6 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“Alas! monsieur, ” replied Prat, “ he has gone away 
and will not return for two days.” 

“What is that to me!” he cried, crazed by despair. 
“Go and find him.” 

A spasm more violent than the others brought Prat 
to the bedside. The child appeared to be dying. 

“I will go at once,” he said. 

Ah ! those terrible minutes of agony and waiting, 
while the delicate victim gasped for breath.; the dan- 
ger increased momentarily, and they were power- 
less! At the end of an hour the steward’s heavy foot- 
steps were heard ascending the stairs. 

“Here they are!” exclaimed Maggie. 

“Too late, too late!” gasped Anderic. 

A new spasm shook the frail little body. Anderic 
pressed hefi^closely to his breast, as if he would save 
her from the invisible foe, tear her from death. A 
light, trembling hand was laid on his arm, and a sweet 
voice whose melody made him start, said: 

“Let her have air, monsieur.” 

He turned, his whole soul passed into his eyes. 

“Edith! — save her, save her!” 

Before he had uttered the words, Edith had wrapped 
the blankets around the child, carried her to the lamp 
and forced her teeth open with a spoon, to examine 
the throat. 

“Hold her hands,” she said to Nivron. 

Having finished the examination, she placed the 
child back into the bed. Her beautiful marble face 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


207 


was undecipherable. Anderic scarcely dared breathe. 

“Some boiling water,” she said calmly. 

The young woman, calm in the midst of this gen- 
eral disorder, made all the necessary preparation, 
tore linen into strips, and dipping them into the boil- 
ing water, without heeding the scalding of her fingers, 
applied them to the inflamed throat of the child. 
Little by little the gasps ceased, the respiration came 
more easily, the expression of suffering left her face, 
and quiet succeeded the recent tumult. 

“Can you hold her?” asked Edith as she placed her 
in her father’s arms. 

“Yes.” 

She arranged the little bed, replaced the child in it 
and remained motionless by her side until she had 
fallen into a quiet sleep. 

“Now, monsieur,” she said, “the danger is over; 
you may retire to rest. It was merely false croup. 
Quite an insignificant thing!” 

“Will you remain here?” 

“Yes, if you wish it.” 

“Will you allow me to remain with you?” 

“As you please.” 

It was a never-to-be-forgetten night to Anderic. 
Death would not dare rob him of his child since Edith 
was there to defend her. But with morning Edith 
would vanish; what would become of him then? The 
hours passed quickly, and as the first streaks of dawn 
filtered through the blinds, his anxiety augmented. 


208 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


It would no doubt be the signal for separation. In a 
moment she would summon Prat or Maggie and ask 
to be escorted back to Fresnois. He already heard 
indications of life from without, the bustle of the 
servants and the church bell calling the faithful to 
prayer. Perhaps she was asleep, weary from her 
night’s watch. At this moment the child tossed in 
her bed. “Will you be kind enough to call Prat?” 
she asked. 

Alas! she was not asleep. He had guessed right, 
she wanted someone to accompany her home. Her 
mission of charity over, she disappeared, leaving him 
alone. She gave the steward a few orders in a low 
voice and then turned to him and said: 

“I am going to church. Maggie will replace me. 
Have no fear; Germaine is out of danger.” 

“Thanks to you,” he said gratefully. 

“Indeed, I deserve no credit. I can understand 
how you lost your head. Those spasms are frightful 
to witness, but they are not dangerous. You had 
better take some rest, monsieur. I will return after 
mass and ask for a few minutes of conversation with 
you.” When he returned to the child’s room later, 
he was surprised to see everything in confusion. A 
trunk stood in the middle of the floor filled with Ger- 
maine’s clothes and toys, while Maggie, in outdoor 
attire, was running hither and thither making prepa- 
rations for departure. But what astonished him most 
was to see Germaine scampering about the room, 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


209 


apparently old friends with Edith, and looking as busy 
as any child to whom a change is promised. 

In the court-yard, he could hear horses pawing the 
ground impatiently; he looked out and saw Edith’s 
coachman in conversation with Prat. 

“Yes,” said the young woman smiling as she fol- 
lowed his glance, “I sent Prat after my carriage. As 
you see, Germaine has even forgotten last night’s inci- 
dent; but, although those attacks are not dangerous, 
they frequently return two or three nights in succes- 
sion. As it would be difficult for me to return, I 
want you to confide the child to me. I will take very 
good care of her — and it will please me. Will you? 
You see I have taken your assent for granted. This 
young lady is ready to acompany me and I hope you 
will not withold your consent.” 

“No, no,” replied Anderic. “It is a blessing to be 
near you.” 

She bowed in silence. 

“Madame, you will take papa, too,” said Germaine. 

“Come and kiss me, my darling,” interrupted the 
count, “and promise that you will be a good little 
girl.” 

He retained the child in his arms a long time, 
happy, delighted to give her a mother. His only 
thought at that moment was that she was no longer 
abandoned. But when he again found himself alone, 
an unconquerable sadness took possession of him. 
His last ray of sunshine, the only link that bound 
14 


210 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


him to life, had been taken away from him. Edith 
and Germaine would become attached to each other, 
and where would be his share of affection? Would 
he even know how his daughter was doing? She was 
at Fresnois, and he was banished from its doors. 
And, although he did not admit it, this banishment 
made him more unhappy than Germaine’s departure. 

Prat returned with excellent news of the journey. 
Germaine was in high spirits, and Madame Edith 
de Rochemaure begged Monsieur le Comte to call that 
afternoon. 

“Thank heaven !” murmured the count. 

The doors of paradise were open to him ! As he 
walked along the wide avenue of elms, so often con- 
templated from afar, a sweet and cruel emotion agi- 
tated him. Nothing had changed. The same labor- 
ers worked in the park, the same servants came and 
went around the house. The same domestic, who had 
received him on the day he fulfilled his promise to 
Gaulier, announced him. 

As on that day, Johanna was gesticulating and talk- 
ing loudly in the drawing-room. But here all resem- 
blance ceased. Five years ago Johanna had thrown 
her arms around his neck; at this moment she trans- 
fixed him with a glance. He expected a virulent 
invective; her indignation, however, interpreted itself 
only in this sudden eclipse. But Germaine’s voice, 
a tramping of little feet, and the rustling of a skirt 
cleared his brow. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


21 I 


“Papa! it is papa!” cried a childish voice joyously. 

“You were awaited with impatience, monsieur,” said 
a sweet voice at the same time. 

This double welcome made him forget Johanna’s 
cold reception. 

“If you knew how your angelic kindness fills me 
with joy and confusion,” he said, “I should scarcely 
dare raise my eyes before you, and yet I look at you, 
speak to you.” 

“Everybody has that right,” she replied gayly. 
“But see, how well Germaine looks! You must 
come often to see her; your presence will lighten my 
responsibility. It is the first time I am in posses- 
sion of a child, and I have been given to understand 
that I am much too ignorant in the cares of that sort 
of fragility to have one confided to me without 
danger.” 

Anderic’s intended short call lengthened into hours, 
and he did not realize the flight of time until Johanna 
had dinner announced with a clatter that would have 
raised the dead. He arose quickly, kissed Germaine, 
and, bowing to Edith, returned to Viellefort with a 
light heart. 

The next day brought him new happiness. During 
a whole week he spent his nights and mornings in 
recalling the delights of the afternoon. But this 
must end sooner or later. Germaine had suffered 
no relapse and should return home. He learned from 
Edith that the child had subjugated Johanna. This 


212 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


was no miracle, however, for at heart she was the 
best of souls. She would overwhelm the child with 
caresses while abusing her with words, only the abu- 
sive language was addressed to the father and mother, 
and the caresses freely given to herself. “Come to 
me, you pretty monster!” she would say. “Why are 
you so bewitching when you are so well endowed to 
be hateful?” These unintelligible phrases made 
Germaine burst into a peal of merry laughter at the 
contrast between the caressing touch and angry tone. 

Anderic now remarked that Edith always seemed sad 
on his arrival. Her welcome, though cordial as ever, 
was not exempt from a sort of uneasiness. The tran- 
quil simplicity of the first days had been succeeded by 
embarrassment. Did she think he abused Ger- 
maine’s presence there, to implant himself into Fres- 
nois? At the end of each visit the young woman 
resumed her old manners, as if she felt relieved. He 
at last resolved to come to some explanation, but she 
anticipated him. 

“Monsieur,” she began, “I wish to ask you a ques- 
tion. You are thinking of taking Germaine away?” 

“It would indeed be indiscretion on my part — ” 

“Answer me frankly, monsieur,” she interrupted. 
“It would be only natural; it must be lonely for 
you at Viellefort.” 

“It is not a question of myself.” 

“Of whom then?” 

“Of her only.” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 21 3 

“Of Germaine — ah! monsieur believe me I have 
no wish to grieve you, but for many reasons she is bet- 
ter here.” 

“For every reason,” he said fervently. 

“Then, why take her away? Maggie takes good 
care of her, but these little beings must have something 
more. They require — ” 

“A mother — and Germaine has none. No one can 
fill that place better than you. And this was the 
secret of your sadness? you feared I would take her 
from you? Yes, if I listened only to my paternal 
affection I would do so, and yet, no, for then I would 
see you no more, and that would kill me.” 

“Monsieur, monsieur, do not poison my joy. You 
then consent to leave me Germaine as long as there 
is no one in your house — ” 

“Forever!” broke in Anderic. Then taking the 
child in his arms he placed her on Edith’s knees and 
added: “She is my only joy; take her.” 

When Johanna was informed of the gift, she scarce- 
ly knew whether to rejoice or be angry. The child 
was certainly adorable, but the father was none the 
less a monster . His visits could be tolerated while 
Germaine was in danger of a relapse; now that she 
was fully recovered, however, there was no necessity 
of these perpetual excursions between Viellefort and 
Fresnois. Not taking into consideration that the sus- 
ceptible Sainte-Avene, retained at his post at this 
moment by an inspection of his regiment, would soon 


214 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


return and show a disposition to fight, on learning of 
the intrusion of this abominable wretch. 

“I told you, you would be sorry sooner or later if 
you meddled with that child,” she concluded. 

“Where do you see a cause of repentance, aunt?” 

“It will end in having to take the father too.” 

"Then you advise me to send her back?” 

“I advise you nothing at all.” 

Edith and Germaine, accompanied by Faust, 
walked down the avenue every afternoon to meet 
Anderic. As soon as he appeared in the distance, the 
dog started toward him like an arrow, closely followed 
by Germaine calling and laughing joyously. 

“He reached you before me, papa,” she would laugh, 
throwing herself in his arms, “but I love you best.” 

Followed by Faust, they would then walk hand-in- 
hand toward Edith who always received him with a 
calm smile as limpid as her heart. The trees round 
them showered their leaves about them; nature envel- 
oped them in its luxuriant beauty, the flowers from 
the garden emitted a thousand perfumes, Anderic felt 
his whole being thrilled, but no emotion was apparent 
in Edith. 

One day, however, she was startled from her ordi- 
nary serenity. Anderic had just told her, with a certain 
bitterness, that Viellefort was very lonely without 
Germaine. 

“Yes, it must be,” she replied. “I often think of it. 
It requires all of your love for her to accept the 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


215 


sacrifice to which you have condemned yourself.” 

“I scarcely know if I should take your words seri- 
ously. You have the right to judge me so severely.” 

Edith’s face flushed. It was the first direct allu- 
sion to the past. 

“You have revealed to me a man I did not know,” 
she replied. “I saw you suffer and weep.” 

“And you thought it strange on my part. It is 
because Germaine is the only link that holds me to 
this world, the only being who still loves me, because 
she cannot judge me. If she died, I would kill my- 
self.” 

Edith involuntarily shuddered. 

“It would be a crime!” she cried. 

“One more or less would scarcely matter. This 
one, at least, would injure no one. I have com- 
mitted others which nothing can expiate. Even were 
I to pass my nights in lamentation, my days in meas- 
uring the depth of the abyss dug with my own hands, 
I could never repair the irreparable. All around me 
is hopelessly changed, and myself as well — changed, 
and by me only.” 

“If you have changed,” she replied, “it does not 
mean that all else here below changes. There are 
beings who never change, in spite of fate.” 

A deep emotion agitated him; he stopped and said 
excitedly: 

“What do you mean? — What am I to under- 
stand? — ” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


2 1 6 

She looked at him full in the face, raised her head 
proudly, and without fear, without false modesty 
replied: 

“That morning on which I swore before God to love 
you, I had loved you always, and forever.” 

She stopped for a moment, then repeated: 

“Forever!” 

He was about to throw himself at her feet but she 
retained him by placing one of her little hands on his 
arm. 

“Listen,” she went on. “I have the right to tell you 
of my feeling toward you, for I am still your wife before 
God, though not before the world. In other days, I 
concealed my love because it annoyed you. Later, 
when rejected from your path, I locked it within my 
heart that it might strengthen me. When you re- 
turned to Fresnois, I knew you were unhappy, and 
felt a deep sorrow. Your delirium revealed to me 
the secret of your sufferings. I wept a great deal 
over you and a little over myself, since my sacrifice 
was useless. God sustained me in that last trial, the 
most terrible of all — the continual spectacle of a de- 
spair wrought by my own hands when I had hoped to 
give you happiness. When you had recovered, I 
met you on the road to Peuyrenard. On that day, for 
the first time in my life, I felt that I was not as a 
stranger to you. I afterward learned of your inter- 
view with my aunt, your visits to Bonnel; I saw you 
following and watching me; you did not speak, but I 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


217 


guessed your feelings, and my heart was filled with 
joy and sorrow. Joy for me, sorrow for you. And 
as I have no wish that you should go through the 
anguish that has tortured me, I let you read my heart. 
Anderic, I love you!” 

His arm was around her waist and he pressed her 
to his heart, while his lips sought hers. Gently dis- 
engaging herself, she pointed to Germaine who was 
racing with Faust, and with a smile said: 

“ What would Germaine say? I have spoken freely 
because it is my right, and because I trusted to your 
honor. We cannot be husband and wife, but we can 
be friends. Will you accept me as a sister?” 

“No, you are my wife.” 

“Before God only.” 

“What matters the world? Iam not an angel! 
Alas you know it well. I am but a weak creature, 
crushed under the weight of human infirmities.” 

“You calumniate yourself. Suffering purifies.” 

“Must we, that it may bear fruit, repudiate the link 
that still unites us?” 

“Our duties are no longer the same. You have cre- 
ated others for yourself. You can give me back nei- 
ther my name, my title of wife, nor my place at your 
fireside. They belong to another — ” 

“Who is unworthy of them.” 

“You are none the less bound to her.” 

“Ah!” he cried bitterly, “if you loved me as I love 
you, you would not reason thus!” 


218 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“ You are ungrateful !” she sighed. “Is it not my 
excessive love which has wrought your misfortune and 
mine? That I might not be an obstacle to your hap- 
piness, I disappeared from your life, crushed down my 
jealousy, my passion, and accepted shame. And you 
believe your love greater than mine !” 

“Forgive me! — I despise myself and adore you — do 
not overwhelm me,” he stammered. 

“It is not you whom I accuse. I alone am to blame. 
I am the guilty one. Without my complicity, you 
could do nothing. It was therefore all my fault.” 

She accused herself with so much repentance that 
he was dumfounded, seized with fear, respect, and 
admiration before this immaculate woman who took 
his faults upon herself. She had seen but him, 
thought of him, wept over him. She gave no thought 
to her sacrificed life; she regretted only the deceived 
happiness, the stained honor, and the compromised 
soul of the loved one. Anderic felt his inability to 
ascend to such heights, and he felt her own inability 
to come down to his level. 

“Will you accept me as your sister?” she asked 
once more, choked by an unutterable emotion as if 
she feared that this man, whom she had judged worthy 
of her pure affections, should not have despoilt him- 
self of all his former weaknesses. 

Ah ! to be so near heaven and renounce it ! His 
heart was filled with an anguish which he strove to 
conceal as he replied: 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


219 


“With your saintly soul, I believe you capable of 
accomplishing miracles. But I know myself; the mir- 
acle will be difficult.” 

“Consult your conscience.” 

“It sees but you.” 

“Then say, Anderic, say frankly, if I, your veritable 
wife, should lower myself to the rank of a — ” 

He interrupted with a cry of indignation: 

“Edith!” 

But carried away by a wild impulse, in defense of 
Anderic, against Anderic himself, she continued: 

“Tell me if you should risk being accused of adultery 
with me by the woman who, though she has deserted 
your home and braved your authority, is nevertheless 
armed with the title of wife? Your conscience may 
be silent, but mine protests in indignation. We can 
neither expose our honor, nor cease to be firm and im- 
movable in duty; we cannot respond to an exceptional 
situation otherwise than by exceptional viitue. What- 
ever burdens we may have to bear, we must pass 
through life without a blush. Cowardly weaknesses 
belong to the vulgar. A love such as ours affirms* 
itself by its grandeur and imposes by its purity. Ah! 
my friend, all I ask is a little happiness. I have had 
so little until now! Consider me always as yours, as 
a fiancee who gives you rendezvous beyond the grave. 
And calm, confiding, resigned, let us patiently await 
the end of all sorrows, which is but the commence- 
ment of all joys.” 


220 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


Conquered by the sweetness of the voice, by the 
serenity of the gaze, which triumphed over his re- 
sistance, he knelt before the young woman and kissed 
the hem of her dress. 

“Command; I shall obey!” he murmured humbly. 

At this moment Germaine ran toward them followed 
by Faust. 

“Madame,” she cried, “what is papa doing?” 

Had Anderic been told that morning that he might 
nourish a faint hope of regaining Edith’s affection, 
he would have considered himself the happiest of 
mortals. Now he returned to Viellefort with the 
certainty of that affection and the conviction that he 
had never lost it, and yet the joy he experienced was 
tinged with a shade of sadness. To feel near him a 
woman — his own wife pardieu ! — dazzling with grace 
and beauty, intoxicating with charm and passion, and 
to be only a brother, after having been the husband, 
was a torture greater than that of Tantalus — and all 
for a crime less grave than that of Pelop’s father. 
The torture was beyond his strength. Lava flowed 
in his veins. He felt himself powerful enough to 
crush all obstacles, save the will of this sublime creat- 
ure. How could he reconcile his blind obedience 
.and the palpitations of his whole being? Near her, 
he could bear the yoke; she made him accept the 
most cruel sacrifices. But when far from her! Did 
she not belong to him? What was this impassable 
barrer between them? And who had built it! He, 
and for a wretched creature — 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


221 


The result of his reflections was soon apparent. 
He ordered his carriage, gave a few hurried orders to 
Prat, and took the first train. During the entire night 
he thought over his plan. All he had robbed from 
Edith, his name, the title of wife, the place at his fire- 
side, he would give back to her. But Fernande? 
Ah, Fernande longed for a divorce; he would gratify 
her desire. If, through a contemptible spirit of con- 
tradiction, she opposed it, he was ready. She would 
no longer find him a weak man, . controlled by her ca- 
prices; he would appear as a judge having the con- 
sciousness of a duty to fulfill. 

His first visit was to Gaulier to obtain the necessary 
funds. The good man willingly opened his purse but 
disapproved of the undertaking. At the very first 
words, moreover, he crushed Anderic’s enthusiasm. 
He could not marry Edith again! He could obtain a 
divorce and marry anybody but his former wife dur- 
ing Fernande’s life-time. Such was the law. And 
then, this second divorce was as worthless as the first. 
Gaulier was too old to approve of th$se new laws 
which bring confusion in families, create abnormal 
positions and shock religious principles. But all the 
notary’s expostulations were in vain. If Anderic 
could not marry Edith, he would at least be Fer- 
nande’s husband no longer. Once he had broken all 
ties between them, Edith would seem nearer, more 
accessible. He would prove to her that nothing 
survived the past; that his name, if she did not resume 


222 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


it, would belong to no other woman while she lived. 

His lawyer, however, received him with open arms, 
considering him as a valuable client whose continual 
chasse-croise between the altar and the tribunal was 
not to be disdained. He poured into Anderic’s ears 
an infinite number of grievances which could be used 
against the countess. The count had never suspected 
the number nor the quality. His indignation, how- 
ever, was tempered by the agreeable prospect of a 
victory without opposition. Everything was in his 
favor. Fernande was up to the neck in the mire. 
Jamidoff had recovered from his wound, and since 
then a bitter rivalry existed between the countess and 
Sarah Keissman. All Paris watched the progress of 
the scandal with interest. For the moment, Sarah 
seemed to be getting the worst of the contest, for the 
countess and the prince had disappeared. But the 
Jewess was not a woman to be baffled with impunity, 
and society now awaited a dazzling revenge. 

Having agreed on the measures to be taken, the 
lawyer and his client parted, the latter returning to 
Viellefort quite enchanted with the result of his jour- 
ney. 

The public denunciation and punishment of this 
wretched creature would not suffice him ; the hour 
had come to proclaim Edith’s innocence, to show 
what gulf separated these two women who were both 
charged with the same crime, the one through legiti- 
mate reprisal, the other through the most odious mis- 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


223 


carriage of justice. But how could this work of rep- 
aration be accomplished? Of what was Edith ac- 
cused? Of guilty relations with Sylvain Bonnel. 
The best means of proving the accusation false was 
to give publicity to Sylvain’s letter — those pages read 
one night at Monte-Carlo, the words of which were 
engraved in burning characters on his heart. 

He immediately went to the Ravin and confided to 
the old game-keeper his determination to atone his 
faults, as far as possible, without warning Edith, that 
she might have at the same time both the surprise 
and happiness of rehabilitation. But to do this, he 
required Sylvain’s letter, and Bonnel alone could claim 
it. It belonged to him, and Edith could not refuse it. 

The old man listened, his arms crossed, his eyes 
cast down. The energetic features expressed a tena- 
cious hostility. Not a word escaped his compressed 
lips. Anderic, embarrassed by this silence, stam- 
mered confused phrases on the generosity of soul of 
the dead, the nobility of sentiments, but the father 
interrupted him impatiently. 

“Enough, monsieur,” he said dryly. “It is not your 
interest in Sylvain that has brought you here. Do 
not mix his name in your affairs. He sleeps; leave 
him in peace. His person and his name are forgot- 
ten. A few feet of sod over his coffin, a few years 
over his souvenir, were all that was necessary.” 

“You are unjust, monsieur,” said the count gently. 
“Those who loved him have not forgotten him.” 


224 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“Are you of the number ?” he asked sarcastically. 

“Yes,” replied Anderic warmly. “Remember our 
intimacy in Africa, in Paris — ” 

“In Paris!” 

“I was violent and cruel, but I was deceived. I 
appeal to your own testimony, to that letter which I 
beseech you to obtain and return to me.” 

The old man paced up and down the room, a prey 
to extreme agitation. When he finally stopped be- 
fore Nivron, his face was livid. 

“Since his death,” he said in a suppressed voice, “I 
have never finished my prayer. God commands us to 
forgive those who have injured us. I cannot forgive 
you. Go!” 

“In mercy, monsieur, that letter.” 

“No!” 

“Like Sylvain, you are devoted to Edith. It is for 

her that I implore you, as he himself would implore 
you.” 

“Go!” repeated Bonnel. “I hate you!” 

Anderic shrank back. This hatred crushed him 
with the weight of a malediction. He cast a last sup- 
plicating glance at this inexorable father and went 
out in despair. The old man followed him with his 
eyes from the door of the little cottage, troubled in 
spite of himself by the evocation of Sylvain’s devo- 
tion and his own. Was he refusing to serve Edith! 
It was serving her to aid in her rehabilitation, even 
though this man won her heart. Besides, had he not 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


22 5 

always been master of it? Had she ever ceased to 
worship him? Anderic was still more odious to him 
since he felt him more worthy of Edith, and even Edith 
herself seemed almost profaned since she rejoiced 
over Anderic’s repentance, since Germaine was near 
her, since the past was buried in the past. But while 
his imagination fermented bitterness, Sylvain’s verses 
*ang to him of the silent immolations with their sad 
Sweetness, their superhuman grandeur. The child’s 
Verses evoked in his memory, troubled him, as if he 
again heard the voice murmuring its plaintive poetry. 
He again saw the pale brow, the beautiful, inspired 
head resting on his breast during those hours of suffer- 
ing when the tears flowed silently before his beloved 
and only confidant. Alas, poor child ! He had loved, 
wept, sacrificed himself, worked for the happiness of 
his rival, accepted all the tortures with a stoical soul, 
and not a crumb of love had fallen to him, living or 
de ad. While another, infinitely his inferior, who had 
been indifferent, disdainful, cruel, was overwhelmed 
With love. Who could blame the father if he execra- 
red the murderer of his son? But the more he rea- 
soned, the louder Sylvain’s voice protested within him. 
Mechanically, he had taken the road to the cemetery 
t . nd stopped beside a grave. It was covered with flow- 
ers. A pious hand had strewn them each day during all 

1 

those years. Ah ! what faithful friendship ! And how 
fll-repaid by him! He knelt and leaned his head on 
the marble. The sad past again arose before him, and 
l 5 


226 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


he burst into tears. Edith was at this moment com- 
ing out of the church and saw him. This sorrow, 
this ever-renewed suffering moved her, and she went 
to him. 

“ Come, Bonnel, ’’she said gently. “ Do not stay here. ’ 

He obeyed her, walking at her side somewhat con- 
fused, listening to the voice he loved so well and which, 
nevertheless, hurt him. The young woman ended by 
asking him what had reopened his wound. 

“M. de Nivron has just left my cottage,” he replied. 

“I believed him in Paris.” 

Seeing that she hesitated, Bonnel related the scene 
that had passed between them. He trembled a little 
as he spoke of Sylvain’s letter, fearing to wound her, 
but she did not make even a gesture of protestation. 
An expression of deep sadness was alone visible on 
her sculptured features. When he had finished, she 
walked on thoughtfully for a few minutes, then said: 

“I will return that letter. It is yours, my friend. 
But you must promise me that you will never part 
with it.” 

“Not even in favor of M. de Nivron?” he asked 
after an effort in which the will triumphed over ex- 
treme repugnance. 

“I shall have an explanation with him.” 

They had reached the chateau ; she extended her 
hand and added: 

“I loved Sylvain as a brother, and I always think of 
him with the respect due a martyr.” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


227 


That night, for the first time since the death of his 
son, Bonnel went to the end of his prayer. 

It was only after a stubborn resistance on the part 
of Anderic, that Edith succeeded in making him aban- 
don his project of divorce. She did not want a new 
scandal. Although she no longer bore the name of 
De Nivron, it was still dear to her. And besides, 
what need was there to implore that unhappy law? 
Fernande was nothing to him. What would the 
decision of the court add to the reality. Prudence 
and charity commanded them to save appearances, 
and, moreover, Germaine’s interest must be placed 
above all other consideration. Now that he had left the 
evil path, would he return to it to give her a repara- 
tion she did not seek? Would not their love and 
esteem suffice them both? They would continue to 
be as yesterday, husband and wife before God, brother 
and sister before the world, expiating by this self-de- 
nial, his past errors and her culpable complicity. 
They would at least have peace of conscience, mutual 
support and the certitude of being in the right. This 
was already half of happiness. 

And Anderic could only admire and obey. 


CHAPTER XII 

Johanna could not understand it. To have an 
opportunity of paying back a rival in her own coin 
and to struggle to preserve her the name and rank she 
had stolen, was beyond her comprehension. To hold 
an enemy at your mercy and revenge yourself by 
gratifying her with a number of small favors, was the 
overthrowing of all accepted ideas, in Germany and 
elsewhere. 

“You shall see what will come of your nonsense,” 
she concluded. “I give Fernande just two days to 
return to your — her — your husband.” 

“She will never return to Viellefort.” 

“You imagine so.” 

“And even if she does, I am sure of Anderic.” 

“So am I. He is laughing at you. You serve him 
as a toy. You are not what he requires to make him 
happy, since he intrusted his happiness to other 
hands. And as soon as this other reappears — ” 

“Oh! aunt,” protested Edith. 

“It is just as I tell you. His income is eaten up 
beforehand and he cannot leave his prison. And as 
you are the only pretty woman in this neighborhood — 
Ah! it makes me wild with rage when I think of it.” 

These scenes were frequently renewed and troubled 
228 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


229 


Edith more than she would admit. Her confidence 
was great, but Johanna’s attacks, her railleries and 
her harsh way of speaking of Anderic’s sentiments, 
disturbed her greatly. She therefore begged her aunt 
to spare her these reflections which could change 
nothing in her relations with Anderic and only served 
in wounding her. Johanna reflected that since she 
was wasting her words on desert air, it were better to 
save her eloquence. She revenged herself on Anderic, 
however, and in her state of exasperation, it was sur- 
prising that she did not rent her spite on Germaine 
also. But Anderic paid dearly since he paid for both. 
She received him as if he were the forerunner of the 
plague, affecting flight as soon as he appeared and 
raising her long arms to heaven as if imploring protec- 
tion. Edith then decided to receive him in the library 
which overlooked the terrace. There at least, he 
would not see the elevated arms. 

“Oh, you are moving,” she observed to Edith. 

“I am merely ridding you of my presence.” 

“That is to say, I disturb you. I am in that gen- 
tleman’s way.” 

“But, my dear aunt — ” 

“Well, you need not put yourself to so much trouble, 
I will not bother you any more.” 

Whenever Anderic appeared after this, Johanna 
rushed down the steps, jumped into her carriage and 
disappeared for the rest of the afternoon. 

“I cannot stay here and breathe the same air 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


230 


as that scoundrel does!” she would mutter aloud. 

Johanna’s bad humor made but little impression on 
Anderic. In Edith’s presence he forgot all that did 
not belong to their love. Near her, he felt perfectly 
happy, but alone at Viellefort the struggle often be- 
came a torture. After spending a restless night, he 
arose feverish, and leaning out of *the open window, 
would become irritated at the joyous songs of the birds 
who announced their happy love to the world. At 
the extremity of the plain, a white mist arising from 
the river enveloped Fresnois in a vapory cloud, as if 
it would conceal that corner of the earth which was 
heaven. Then, at the sound of the church-bell, he 
would run down, cross the cemetery still wet. with 
dew, and enter the church to contemplate Edith from 
afar. At the sight of her kneeling figure, the tumult 
that raged within him became appeased as if by en- 
chantment; the calm purity of this exquisite creature 
filled him with restful effluvia. The light bow she 
gave him as she passed him at the door made him 
await the afternoon patiently. At Fresnois she did 
not offer him her hand; her attitude toward him was 
of extreme reserve. The love that beamed in her 
eyes never came to her lips, but what sweetness and 
what real abandon ! She entertained him by speak- 
ing of Germaine, playing delicious music, leading him 
into the park, to the bank of the river, under the 
shade of the forest. They conversed on a thousand 
subjects and the hours flew away on enchanted wings. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


231 


She seemed to be striving to make him grateful for 
the tranquil joys of the present and make him forget 
the past, or his unattainable hopes. 

Edith could not be blind to his secret struggles. 
She saw his sufferings in the brilliancy of his eyes, in 
the alteration of his features. Neither was she spared 
the pangs of regret, but she remained deaf to the cries 
of her heart, thinking of duty only. She was grate- 
ful to him for concealing his sufferings. Proud to see 
him walking courageously in the path of res gnation, 
she believed that their sorrows united them more 
closely than any worldly joys, and that God would bless 
them for an expiation so willingly accepted. She 
carefully-avoided all that might make the trial harder, 
for at times she felt a momentary weakness in spite 
of her courageous will. This was why she never 
extended her hand to Anderic, and an accident revealed 
the truth to him one day. 

They were wandering in the park and Germaine 
was amusing herself, as usual, by romping through 
the underbrush with Faust. Suddenly she tripped 
over a broken branch and fell heavily against the 
trunk of an oak. At the first cry, Edith was at her 
side, stifling her with kisses. 

“Never mind,” she said soothiagly, “I will carry 
you.” 

“No, she is too heavy,” broke in Anderic; “let me 
carry her.” 

Germaine was accepting the exchange when the 


232 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


idea suddenly came to her that Edith might feel hurt. 
She threw her arms around the young woman’s neck 
so abruptly and unexpectedly that she staggered and 
fell on his breast. Anderic clasped the adored form, 
pressing her more closely than was perhaps necessary 
to maintain equilibrium, breathing the perfume of her 
hair, feeling the beating of her heart, devouring with 
his eyes the lovely features which had paled in the 
ecstasy of the embrace. A great joy mingled with 
pride invaded him — the pride of his power over this 
woman who feared even the simple contact of his 
hand. It flashed upon him that it perhaps only re- 
quired an energetic will to conquer her resistance. 

She raised her e}^es to his — those beautiful, luminous 
dark eyes, pure as her soul. A second time he hesi- 
tatd, the blood rushed to his temples, he was about 
to close with a kiss the lovely eyes that pleaded for 
mercy with so much intoxicating submission, but their 
dumb language conquered him. His arm unclasped 
her waist. No, it would not be by surprise, as a thief, 
that he would recover his lost rights; he must remain 
worthy of her esteem. They resumed the road to 
Fresnois without explanation, without even exchang- 
ing a word, yet they loved each other a little more. 
They could now walk side by side without fear. 
Their will dominated all — the tumult of the senses, 
the emotions of the heart, the trembling of the lips in 
the mad desire of passionate kisses. 

Such perfect understanding disconcerted Johanna. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


233 


Weary of her daily fugues, she had renounced them, 
so that she was now witness to these improprieties. 
Sometimes, she almost regretted her visits, however, 
for there they merely tried her nerves, while here her 
most elementary notions of good sense and dignity 
were set at naught. But somehow or other these 
visits annoyed her, not that she was made unwelcome 
for she was always received with open arms, but she 
knew this to be the result of a stupid curiosity in 
what concerned Edith. Under the active impulse of 
Sainte-Avene and his sister Madame de Servan, a 
revulsion of feeling had taken place toward Edith. 
What! she was not guilty and had allowed herself to 
be condemned! All were inexhaustible in their praises 
and exclamations. Little by little, revelations whis- 
pered here and there grew, amplified, and the actors 
in the drama acquired new interest. Even Sainte- 
Avene shared this interest and shone by reflected light 
in the affair. It was of public notoriety that he had 
sworn to marry Edith or forever remain a bachelor; 
and there were open wagers as to who should win her, 
he or Anderic. Johanna’s words and countenance 
were consequently closely studied, as she was known 
to side with Sainte-Avene. 

The greater number, however, were in favor of 
Anderic. The world judges more justly than we 
think. Fernande had alienated all sympathy by her 
scandalous actions, while the retired and dignified 
life led by Edith and Anderic won praises from all 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


234 

lips. The countess was a dissolute creature, the others 
were heroes. Although Johanna shared the general 
opinion concerning Fernande, she considered one of 
the heroes the most abominable scoundrel of the day. 
All praises in his honor irritated her, and she resolved 
to avoid them. She did not renounce those visits 
entirely, however, and soon had occasion to congrat- 
ulate herself for it, as one of her last visits gave her 
the opportunity of bursting into Fresnois like a thunder 
bolt and bringing confusion in the midst of the “spot- 
less lambs, ” as she called Anderic and Edith. 

“Oh! don’t let me drive you away, monsieur, ” she 
said, as Anderic arose to offer his seat, “for I am 
delighted to see you, really delighted.” 

“Believe me, mademoiselle,” he began, “the pleas- 
ure — ” 

“Oh! certainly. But have you heard the news?” 

Anderic shrugged his shoulders as if all news was 
indifferent to him. 

“The marriage of one of your mistresses,” she 
resumed. “M. de Sainte-Avene has just returned from 
Paris and told us the whole story at his sister’s house. 
A fine marriage, indeed! But you have not asked me 
who it is. Well, I will surprise you. The bride is 
your mistress Sarah Keissman.” 

“You are mistaken,” he replied. “Mademoiselle 
Keissman was never what you affirm.” 

“This is rather a strong assertion.” 

“I maintain it.” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


235 


“And you, Edith, do you also maintain it?” 

The young woman was very pale. Such cruel 
memories had been revived within her! For one 
instant she looked at Anderic, but tiis eyes did not 
flinch. 

“When M. de Nivron affirms anything, I do not 
hesitate to believe it,” she said quietly. 

“Humph! — And what you have seen with your own 
eyes!” 

“Her eyes have witnessed the most odious comedy, 
I admit,” protested Anderic, “but it was a comedy of 
which I was the dupe. For I never imagined that 
there existed a secret understanding between Made- 
moiselle Keissman and Mac-Oney, that my miserable 
ruses to gain the latter served their outrageous projects. 
Sarah Keissman was nothing to me; I swear it. My 
faults are numerous enough without adding to them. 
You have your reasons for striking me, and I bow 
before them. Yet allow me to tell you, I was more 
deserving of your hatred when I enjoyed your good 
will, when I married your niece simply because I had 
given my word, than at present when I would give 
my life for her. Blind and without soul as I was 
then, you exalted me; now when I have ceased to 
be so, you execrate me.” 

“If I understand you right, I am the guilty one of 
the two.” 

“No, mademoiselle — ” 

“Yet — with your way of complaining — ” 


236 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“I would not complain if in striking me you did not 
strike Edith, and open the wounds which I have 
inflicted. ,, 

“No,” cried the young woman, “nothing 01 the past 
touches me. It exists no longer for me!” 

Her coup de theatre had failed, and Johanna’s 
exasperation at the failure was the more intense as 
each assault on Anderic predisposed Edith a little 
more in his favor, and she feared that she might end 
in alienating her niece’s affection entirely from her- 
self. During the altercation a storm had come up 
and the thunder now rolled in the midst of torrents 
of rain. Anderic who was annoyed and feared 
another offensive attack, prepared to take his leave, 
however. It was moreover dinner time. But Edith, 
though she did not dare speak, betrayed the anxiety 
she felt at his departure, by her countenance. 

“Very well, invite him to dinner,” said Johanna 
shrugging her shoulders contemptuously. “You are 
dying to have him stay.” 

Edith placed her hand on his shoulders, her charm- 
ing face looking reassured, and said: 

“My aunt is right. Remain, I beg of you.” 

He took his old place at the table. How changed 
he was since that time! Thanks to Germaine the 
meal passed off gayly enough. It would be exaggera-j 
tion to say that Johanna never opened her mouth, 
for like a good German woman she did honor — and 
very great honor — to every dish, which gave her an 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


237 


opportunity to observe and be silent. She observed 
conscientiously. What singular personages! The 
niece ate nothing, the ex-nephew merely nibbbled at 
his food; the latter bore the expression of a weeping- 
willow; the former paled or blushed at every turn. 
It really was not worth while to be together, for this 
must necessarily exercise a bad influence on the 
health. In the drawing-room, the observations con- 
tinued. Still the same embarrassment. How ridic- 
ulous! When Germaine had been carried off to bed, 
Edith went to the piano and played one of Chopin’s 
Nocturns. Anderic leaned on the chimney and list- 
ened. His eyes never left her; in imagination he 
kissed the thoughtful brow above which fluttered the 
dark wavy hair. 

“Ah! ah! something new,” reflected Johanna as she 
noticed a tear on Anderic’s cheek. “I can now say I 
have seen a crocodile weep.” 

When Edith had finished playing, she went and sat 
near him. He at once resumed his impenetrable 
mask, bent slightly toward her and discussed music. 

“What a good comedian he is !” concluded Johanna. 

The storm still raged, the wind howled furiously, 
but it was time to depart. Edith wanted to order 
the horses, but Anderic would not hear of it. He 
could well walk that distance, and besides, a shower 
would not affect him disagreeably for his head was on 
fire. Edith accompanied him to the terrace. The 
trees in the park moaned dismally in the darkness of 


238 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


the night. It seemed to her that in allowing him to 
go in the storm, she was delivering him to sure dan- 
gers. She could retain him no longer, however; it 
was time he should go; but still he stood beside her 
while she tried to pierce the gloom. Never had he 
remained so long near her, never had he so keenly 
felt the bitterness of their position. With an irre- 
sistible impulse, he snatched the ribbon at her waist, 
pressed it to his lips, and stifling a rising sob, tore 
himself away. As he disappeared, swallowed up in 
the darkness, Edith wafted him a kiss; Johanna, 
who had followed on tiptoe and was still in her 
mood of observations, assisted to this mute dia- 
logue. 

“So you are in tears, too,” she said. “Upon my 
word, I don’t understand it at all. But, as you still 
consider him your husband — ” 

It was almost midnight when Anderic, dripping 
like a sea-god, arrived at Viellefort and found Prat 
awaiting him. 

“What is the matter?” he asked. 

“If Monsieur le Comte will go to the drawing- 
room — ” 

“I am going to bed.” 

“There is somebody waiting for you.” 

“For me?” 

“Madame la Comtesse. She has been here since 
seven o’clock. I have had the fire lighted and mon- 
sieur may dry himself.” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


239 


But Anderic was not listening; he was already in 
the drawing-room. 

As he appeared in the doorway, Fernande rushed 
toward him, her arms extended, calling him by his 
name. 

“Anderic — It is I !” 

He stood motionless, unable to believe his eyes and 
ears. She touched him. He took a step backward 
and crushed her with a contemptuous look, saying: 

“By what right do you re-enter my home?” 

She fell on her knees before him and said in her 
siren voice: 

“Forgive me!” 

Anderic’s gloomy countenance frightened her. 
Raising her hands in an attitude of despairing suppli- 
cation, she repeated: 

“Forgive me!” 

He turned away and started toward the door. But 
in an instant she was at his side, her arms entwining 
him like the coils of a serpent. The contact of her 
body could not fail to rekindle the passionate fever of 
other days. 

“ You will not forgive me? I shall die ! If you knew 
how I suffer! I am repentant and submissive. Your 
will shall be mine. Have mercy! I have never loved 
anyone but you. And you must feel it at this mo- 
ment.” 

He pushed her from him roughly, without a word, 
and rang the bell. The rigid face of the steward 
appeared in the doorway. 


240 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“Order the carriage to convey madame to the station. 
You will accompany her and place her in the first 
train. ” 

“Monsieur!” gasped Fernande. 

“Go!” said Anderic. 

He was surprised to see that Prat, instead of retir- 
ing to execute his orders, seemed to have some obser- 
vations to make. 

“Did you hear me?” he cried angrily. 

“Yes, Monsieur le Comte. But after such a storm 
the creeks are swollen and it is impossible to see two 
steps before you in such darkness. Neither the coach- 
man nor myself could take madame back to the sta- 
tion without a risk of drowning her.” 

“It is no doubt what M. de Nivron would wish,” 
muttered Fernande. 

Anderic gave her a glance that made her shrink, 
for if she read in it the horror of such a suspicion, she 
also distinctly read that this solution would be a 
happy deliverance. 

“Since the roads are dangerous,” he observed, “have 
a room prepared. Madame will take an early morn- 
ing train.” 

And he left the room without another word. 

Fernande was now alone. She had certainly not 
expected an enthusiastic reception, but to be dismissed 
in that way! Had she played her role of repentance 
badly? No, she was ever the same, skillful in the art 
of deceit. But Anderic was no longer the same. A 


A BROKEN CHAIN 24I 

few months had transformed him. What had he been 
doing during that time? Where had he spent the 
evening while she awaited him? Neither Prat nor the 
other servants whom she had interrogated would open 
their lips. They had been commanded to silence, no 
doubt. 

She found everything in the same place in her room. 
She sank into a chair, disheartened, half-conquered. 
What was to be done? Should she remain at Vielle- 
fort and win back her husband? She was weary of 
the struggle, demoralized. She lived over her depart- 
ure from the chateau, her arrival at Jamidoff’s bed- 
side, the hours of passion that had followed his con- 
valescence. She had sacrificed everything to him, 
and he had repaid her by betraying her. And with 
Sarah! A revenge no doubt, on Sarah’s part for hav- 
ing inflamed Anderic to the profit of another. Ah ! 
those Jewesses! When her eyes had been opened to 
Sarah’s treachery, it was too late; she had already 
lost her power over that stupid Jamidoff. But as she 
knew how to frighten him, Jamdioff at once feigned a 
sincere love and took her to Italy. They settled on 
the shores of the lake of Como, and who would not 
have felt victorious in her place ? He never left her, 
only now and then to visit an invalid uncle in Venice. 
She read the uncle’s letters, written in a trembling 
hand, in a strange style. How could she doubt ! 
How could she suspect that Jamidoff was deceiving 
her when he announced that the old man was very 
16 


242 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


ill? He must hasten to his bedside, but he would 
write every day— and, in fact, each day brought a 
letter. She replied punctually! At the end of a fort- 
night she became weary of her isolation and mani- 
fested a desire to join him, promising to keep the 
strictest incognito. The letters continued, but con- 
tained not the least allusion to her request. Anxious 
and alarmed, she hastened to Venice and found her 
self, face to face with, not a dying uncle, but a robust 
Russian, as healthy as a Turk. Tableau! He was an 
old comrade of the prince, and the latter was in Paris 
since an eternity. The Russian had still more than a 
dozen letters for her. As to her replies, they were 
there and unopened ! She flew to Paris only to learn 
that Jamidoff and Sarah were married and had left 
for parts unknown. The wretches! And here she 
was at Viellefort with the prospect of being ejected 
the next day! 

The next morning after mass, Edith found Anderic 
waiting for her in the cemetery. He soon gave her 
an account of the events of the preceding night. 

“What! Fernande at Viellefort!” she cried. 

“Yes, and she feigns illness to remain there.” 

“You must not drive her away, Anderic; remember 
she is Germaine’s mother.” 

“And you ask me to keep her?” 

“I have no merit in doing so, having full confidence 
in you. We shall have more to bear, but we shall 
be courageous.” 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


243 


Edith was, however, less resigned than she appeared. 
She did not dare raise her eyes to him, for fear he 
would read the agony of her heart. This return, this 
sudden apparition at the long-forsaken home, was a 
cruel thought to her. But who would support 
Anderic if not she? 

“But you must leave me Germaine,” she said sadly. 

She could at least protect the child against this 
unnatural mother. They walked slowly back to 
Fresnois and met Johanna on the terrace. In a few 
words she was informed of Fernande’s arrival. 

“Of course you immediately showed her the door, 
monsieur?” she said. 

“I will not allow it,” declared Edith. 

“You will — ” began Johanna but stopped short. 

In fact, this was not bad policy. It would give her 
a chance to probe Anderic’s feelings, and if he did 
not come out of the affair spotless, she would have 
the right to cast him out of Edith’s path, which he 
so unfortunately incumbered. 

At breakfast, Fernande sent word to her husband 
that she was too ill to leave her room and that she 
wished to see him. As he entered she examined him 
closely. He had grown much thinner, and on his still 
handsome features was imprinted an expression she 
had never seen there before. He still retained that 
air of supreme distinction which had formerly brought 
him so many triumphs; but his perfect self-pos9ession 
gave evidence of his complete indifference. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


244 

“You have sent for me,” he said. 

“I wanted to apologize for being here still. It is 
not my fault. I am very ill.” 

She spoke with infinite sweetness, with tears in her 
voice. 

“You may remain,” he replied coldly. “You are 
therefore free to be well as soon as you please.” 

“How generous you are,” she returned without 
appearing to notice the irony in his last phrase. 

Raising herself on the pillows, she extended her 
arms pleadingly, in an attitude that might have been 
the appeal of a mistress or the submission of a 
Magdalene. 

“I am not prompted by generosity but by duty,” 
he retorted. 

“May I kiss Germaine?” 

“Never.” 

“Never? My child?” 

“That matters little.” 

“Do you believe me without feelings?” 

“Absolutely.” 

The interview was not very satisfactory to Fer- 
nande. The former slave had become an inexorable 
master. After a night’s reflection she found him the 
same he had been in the first surprise of her sudden 
return. He had changed his mind, but not his senti- 
ments. She had re-entered Viellefort, but she could 
never re-enter his heart. And how positively he had 
refused her Germaine ! But how was it that she had 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


245 


not heard her laugh or cry since morning? Had she 
been sent away because of her? When she at last 
came down to the dining-room, after a few days she 
was forced to sacrifice, ^ to give color to her illness, 
Anderic briefly inquired after her health and did not 
again open his lips. As soon as the meal was over 
he disappeared and did not return until seven o’clock 
in the evening. And this became his daily habit. 

A week had scarcely passed before Fernande began 
to find her life horribly dull. She spent the day 
alone, without a soul to talk to — no one who could 
even tell her what had become of her child. Her 
husband was always out, avoided her, and she was 
left to her devices. Weary of this existence, she one 
day summoned courage, and said: 

“You go out every day. You should take me with 
you.” 

“It is my habit to go out alone,” he replied dryly. 

“Do you visit in the neighborhood? Our existence 
is somewhat secluded.” 

“It is the lot of people who have closed all doors 
against themselves.” 

Ah ! this was too much ! A fine recompense for her 
efforts to be charming and affectionate ! and all for a 
man of iron, insensible, blind, and deaf. And this 
was the inflammable Anderic ! It must be that she had 
forgotten how to bewitch him or that time had trans- 
formed him into an iceberg. One day, however, a 
faded tea-rose dropped from her husband’s pocket- 


246 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


book. He hastened to pick it up, inhaled the perfume 
for one brief instant, and replaced it in his pocket, near 
his heart. A blossoming iceberg was not in the 
nature of things; the daily excursions were now ex- 
plained. 

There must be a woman — a consoling angel. Her 
thoughts at once turned to Edith. Men are so vi- 
cious! Through sheer perverseness, Anderic was 
quite capable of falling in love with the woman he 
had scorned where there existed no obstacles, without 
taking into consideration the piquancy of committing 
adultery with a woman who was three-fourths his 
legitimate wife. The day succeeding her discovery, 
she arose early under pretense of taking a walk in the 
park, but in reality to watch the door of the chateau. 
She soon saw Anderic come out and followed him 
stealthily. 

To her great astonishment she saw him enter the 
church. 

“Is there any special ceremony going on?” she 
asked the sexton who passed her at that instant. 

.“No, madame,” answered the man. 

“But I just saw M. de Nivron entering the church.” 

“He comes to mass as usual. He never misses a 
day.” 

“Ah! thank you.” 

She turned back, perplexed. Had he become pious? 
he who formerly — The abbe had evidently converted 
him, snatched his soul from perdition. This explained 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


247 


his condescension in allowing her to remain “through 
duty.” It was possible after all. Yes, but the rose? 
It had not the fragrance of the priestly flower-beds. 
There was about it, she knew not what, of the flow- 
ers that wither on the bosom of a woman. And the 
church was a public place, favorable to rendezvous. 
Turning to retrace her steps, Fernande found herself 
face to face with Anderic. 

“The sexton told me you were looking for me,” he 
said. 

“No. I merely asked if some extraordinary cere- 
mony was going on.” 

“Why did you think so?” 

“Because I saw you went in.” 

“Well, what of that?” 

“I did not believe you were so pious.” 

He scrutinized her face attentively; a suspicion 
had flashed through his mind. But she bore the 
examination unflinchingly. 

“Let us return home,” he said. 

“Willingly. But do you go to church every morn- 
ning?” 

“Yes, every morning.” 

“How strange !” 

“Do you think so?” 

“Don’t you?” 

“Not at all.” 

“Neither do I, then.” 

When he went out after breakfast, he turned sev- 


248 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


eral times to see if he was followed. He was not, 
however; he had been preceded. Concealed behind 
a thicket, Fernande watched his coming. He passed 
close to her and entered the park of Fresnois. She 
followed, gliding among the trees like a viper, never 
losing sight of him. Anderic was evidently in a hurry 
to reach the rendezvous, for he walked on rapidly 
until he reached the chateau. A wild fury took pos- 
session of her. It was indeed Edith! The victim 
was victorious in her turn! She crept near the cha- 
teau, fearing to be surprised at every step, and peered 
in the windows. Johanna was alone in the drawing- 
room. She walked a few steps further and reached 
the library. Seated in a sculptured chair was Edith 
with Germaine on her lap, while the child held out 
her arms to her father who stood near. She could 
not hear their words, but the attitude, the happy ex- 
pression of the countenances, told her all. The ruins 
she had sown in her path had not prevented these 
two hated beings from reuniting and loving each other. 
She boldly pushed the door and entered. Edith’s 
first movement was to clasp the child closer to her 
breast, as if the legal mother could have come for no 
other purpose than to rob the adopted mother, while 
Germaine looked in surprise at this unknown woman. 

“What are you doing here?” thundered Anderic, 
walking threateningly toward her. 

“And you?” 

“Go!” 





Then, like a whirl-wind, she bent over Edith, seized the child 
and disappeared.” — (p. 249.) 



A BROKEN CHAIN 


249 


“Not until I have taken my child from your mis- 
tress.” 

“On your knees wretch !” he hissed, “on your knees 
and beg pardon! Had it not been for her I would 
have driven you from Viellefort like a — ” 

Seizing her by the shoulders, he tried to bend the 
rebellious form. She resisted with all her strength. 
But slowly, under the iron wrist of her husband, she 
yielded and fell at Edith’s feet. 

“You need not triumph,” she said, “it is in spite of 
myself.” 

“Anderic, I beg you, leave her alone,” pleaded 
Edith. 

Anderic released his grasp, and Fernande was on 
her feet in an instant. 

“I shall be revenged, I shall be revenged!” she 
hissed, wild with fury. 

Then, like a whirlwind which tears and sweeps all 
before it, she bent over Edith, seized the child and 
disappeared before the two witnesses of the abduction 
had time to realize what had taken place. 


CHAPTER XIII 


In the summit of one of the towers of Fresnois 
was a sort of loggia, in ruins, and almost forgotten. 
Interminable lofts preceded the tottering stairway 
that led to it. It was there that Fernande carried 
Germaine. In this height, haunted only by birds of 
night, no sound, however loud, could be heard from 
below. At first Germaine was unable to utter a 
sound; terror had paralyzed her. As she was torn 
from Edith’s arms, a hand was placed over her lips 
and almost cut off her respiration. In one bound, 
Fernande had reached the second story. She knew 
the chateau well, the obscure stairways of the towers 
where no one ever went, the deserted lofts, the log- 
gia which she would change into a hiding-place. 
She reached her destination, panting, exhausted by 
her furious race, with her struggling burden. As soon 
as Germaine was released she called for her father 
and Edith. “Edith!” This name on the child’s lips 
increased Fernande’s rage. That woman must have 
all, not only the husband but the being brought into 
the world by her rival. She knelt before the child, 
but the latter shrank from her. Seizing her by the 
shoulders, she brought her close and scrutinized the 
poor terrified little face. 


250 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


251 


“I frighten you!” she said. “Don’t you know me?” 

Again the name of Edith arose in trembling appeal 
between these two beings of the same flesh. 

“Very well, cry away,” said Fernande. “You will 
never see her again.” 

She closed the door that creaked on its hinges, 
assured herself that Germaine could not open it, and 
leaned against the loop-hole to collect her thoughts. 
Until now she had acted under the impulse of the 
moment, but it was now necessary to form some 
plan. She had accomplished a master-stroke; she 
must now make the most of it. From her observa- 
tory she could see Anderic, Edith and Johanna run- 
ning wildly on the terrace, while the servants were 
dispatched in different directions by Bonnel who was 
the picture of despair. It was the prelude of her 
vengeance — the commencement of her triumph. She 
bit her lips until the blood spurted and the insipid 
taste of this blood filled her with a voluptuous sensa- 
tion; it was the momentary appeasement of a mon- 
strous appetite for assassination. 

With a wicked light shining in her eyes, she looked 
down on her victims with a ferocious cruelty, like a 
panther who has already wounded its prey and is pre- 
paring to kill. She knew how and where to strike 
now; she held the weapon in her hands: the child, 
her daughter Germaine, whose tears might have soft- 
ened her, had it not been for the continued repetition 
of Edith’s name. But these sobs moved her no more 


25 2 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


now than the cold crumbling stones around her. And 
who could blame her? Was she not the stranger, the 
enemy from whom she turned in terror? She opened 
her arms and they remained empty. The voice of 
nature awoke no feelings in the child; why should it 
speak within the mother’s breast? Moreover, was it 
not enough to drive her to desperation to see this 
child in tears, crouching miserably against the door, 
calling continually for her father and Edith? 

“You may cry your eyes out,” she muttered. 
“Others will weep also.” 

She laughed almost joyfully as she saw them run- 
ning hither and thither through the park. They be- 
lieved she was flying from Fresnois, toward the sta- 
tion — anywhere out of their reach. No one would 
suppose she would have the audacity to conceal her- 
self in the chateau. Besides, who would look for her 
in this tower? She was, perhaps, the only one who 
knew of this refuge, discovered by chance before her 
marriage. It is always well to study our surround- 
ings as well as the people we come in contact with. 
And it was owing to this excellent habit that in her 
wanderings during the last few days she had remarked 
an unprepossessing fellow at the mill of Puyrenard 
and spoken to him. His eyes had a look of insolence 
as he examined her, but this was only amusing to her. 
She had laughed' with him as they stood near the 
bridge, and she now congratulated herself on the ac- 
quisition of this acquaintance. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


253 


He might prove a perfect treasure. For five or six 
louis — all her purse contained — and perhaps for a 
smile, he would be at her disposition. She calmly, 
and coldly laid out her plans, erected her batteries. 
An accomplice was indispensable; she had him. As 
to the rest ! — 

Night had come. Exhausted, Germaine had fallen 
asleep on the floor. Seated by her side, her back to 
the wall, Fernande still meditated. At last her eyes 
closed also and she slept peacefully while below 
hearts were breaking. The cry of a night bird start- 
led her. In the impenetrable darkness the walls 
creaked around her, the wind moaned dismally, the 
weather-cocks grated, plaintive sounds arose from 
every direction. She extended her hand; Germaine 
still slept. Then she arose, shook off the numb feel- 
ing that paralyzed her, and groped along the wall 
until she found the door. She went down cautiously, 
every nerve strained to catch the least sound and 
avoid a surprise. She was going out to assure herself 
of. an accomplice, and would return for Germaine 
before she engaged in the decisive combat. 

Johanna and Anderic had prevailed on Edith to 
retire for a few hours rest. Anderic had returned to 
Viellefort in the hope that the unnatural mother would 
bring the child there. Fresnois was wrapped in 
silence, but Edith slept not. She tossed uneasily on 
her bed, her heart filled with agony at the thought of 
her poor little Germaine. The horrible vision of 


254 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


Fernande tearing the child from her arms was ever 
before her eyes. At every instant she imagined she 
heard the little feet running in the hall; so strong was 
the hallucination that once she even thought the foot- 
steps stopped at her door. She held her breath, list- 
ening intently, fully aware that she must be dream- 
ing, yet still hoping it might be true. At last dawn 
appeared. As the first streaks of day glided through 
the blinds, she again thought she heard the rustling 
of a dress and a stifled sigh near her door. This time 
it was no illusion. She rushed to the door. No, 
nothing, no one! Ah! what bitter agony! she opened 
the window; the fresh morning air entered the room 
with the first rays of the sun. Then for the first time 
she noticed an envelope lying under the door. At a 
glance she recognized Fernande’s handwriting. She 
tore open the paper and read these words: 

“If you want Germaine, come to the grotto of Puyre- 
nard, follow the subterranean passage. You will 
find our remains on the railway track.” 

Edith uttered a piercing cry that brought the 
whole household to her side. She was livid; her lips 
parted, unable to speak, overwhelmed by the 
announcement of this terrible vengeance. 

“What is it? What is it?” repeated Johanna. 

It was sometime before she could utter the words 
that choked her. 

“Quick!” she cried without heeding their questions. 
“Call Anderic, Prat, Bonnel, everybody! Tell them 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


255 


to run to the grotto of Puyrenard. I am going. Oh ! 
if 1 can only get there in time!” 

Wild with terror, she dashed away, across the 
lawn, through the bushes, straight before her. A 
servant hastened to Viellefort, while Johanna wrung 
her hands exclaiming: “They have all gone mad, 
what imbeciles!” Then perceiving the paper which 
had dropped from Edith’s hands, she picked it up and 
read it. Heavens! Fernande was not the woman to 
kill herself. It must be a trap! And she hastened to 
show the letter to Bonnel who had just come. 

When Edith reached the bank of the river, hope 
revived within her. She was in time; Fernande 
was crossing the mill-pond in a boat she rowed 
herself, and Germaine was seated beside her. Edith 
hurried onward, panting for breath. It seemed to 
her that something was holding her back, that she 
was paralyzed, that something prevented her from 
going forward, as in a nightmare. Fernande had 
now reached the other shore, placed the child on the 
shore, and was mooring the bark. She did not appear 
in a hurry, feigning not to be aware of pursuit, and 
walked slowly up to the rustic bridge that led to the 
grotto. This was also Edith’s aim — to cross the 
bridge, overtake them, throw herself at Fernande’s 
feet, and plead for mercy. Suddenly she stopped 
before an unexpected obstacle: the bridge was broker- 
near the middle. 

“Fernande! Fernande! wait for me,” she implored. 


256 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


The water boiled around the decaying supports 
from which the planks had been torn. A hundred 
yards below, the water-wheel showed its enormous 
teeth amid a cataract of diamond spray, then plunged 
them into the gulf, like the continual movement of a 
monstrous beast occupied in a gigantic and never-end- 
ing work. Breathless and trembling Edith joined her 
hands in humble prayer. 

“Wait! wait! I beseech you!” 

Fernande was looking at her with a look of triumph 
on her face while Germaine, her arms extended to 
Edith, was crying piteously: 

“Mamma! mamma!” 

“Hush! I am your mother.” 

“No, I don’t want you.” 

“Come.” 

“No, no, no!” 

The child struggled, clutching at the bushes, and 
refusing to go on. Before the imminent danger, a 
superhuman strength came to Edith. She prepared 
to jump over the yawning chasm. Light and swift as 
a bird, she reached the other side. Suddenly, she 
threw up her arms, tottered for a few moments, and 
rolled into the abyss with her frail support. The 
piles had been cut at the water’s edge. 

A demoniacal smile fluttered on Fernande’s lips. 
There were still men that would do her bidding. A 
few words, a smile, and it was all over with her rival. 
Where would she come up? Over there, in the 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


257 


teeth of the wheel. Fernande could not repress a 
shudder. The planks, carried by the swift current, 
dashed against a tree whose branches were bathed 
by the river, then drawn by the foaming water disap- 
peared under the wheel. It was on that point that 
Fernande gazed obstinately; it was there that she 
would again see Edith. And the thought of seeing 
the corpse that would be her work, seized by the 
wheel, crushed by the gigantic teeth, filled her with a 
strange agitation: the impatience at the delay and 
the dread that it would appear too soon. She shud- 
dered and tried to look away, but could not tear her 
eyes from it. The noise of a fall made her turn. 
Germaine in her anxiety to see her adopted mother 
had also fallen in. Fernande instinctively bent over 
to seize her, but a frightful spectacle rooted her to 
the spot: almost at her feet, beside the tree with its 
bathing branches, the body of Edith emerged to the 
surface. The hands clutched the limbs and the mar- 
morean head arose above death — the victim lived, the 
crime had failed. What would be dashed against the 
merciless wheel, what she would murder, was Ger- 
maine, her child, her innocent little daughter! — One 
hand loosed its grasp. No, no, this woman was lost, 
fatigue was overcoming her— Fernande recoiled, 
stupefied: Edith had seized Germaine as she was 
borne past her, placed the little arms around her neck, 
and again clutched the branches. On the lovely face 
she saw depicted, contempt, disgust, horror, and 
n 


258 


, A BROKEN CHAIN 


above all an expression of impassible serenity — a dis- 
dain of death similar to her former disdain of life. 
Fernande felt the sensation of a last insult. 

She no longer saw Germaine; she saw only Edith — 
the woman annihilated the mother; again she was 
outraged. Blind with rage, she placed her foot on the 
tree. The branches sank, the water arose over Ger- 
maine’s head. And now Fernande pressed with all her 
weight. The branch sank lower and lower into the 
liquid tomb, and soon under her murderous feet 
nothing appeared but a dark ripple around which was 
only heard the vague noise of disturbed water. This 
time she had conquered! In the intensity of her pas- 
sion she felt nothing, but scrutinized the water, hold- 
ing her breath to seize Edith’s last gasp, forgetting 
that the death-rattle of her child would mingle with 
it. 

Suddenly the voice of the game-keeper broke the 
stillness. 

“Jump, Faust! seize her!” 

Loud barking resounded from the other side of the 
mill-pond. A brown shadow flitted across the river. 

Fernande drew back horrified before the open 
mouth of Faust. His teeth sank into her throat and 
they rolled into the abyss together. 

Slowly the branch emerged from the water, expos- 
ing in the bright sunlight its fruits of death: the livid 
faces of Edith and Germaine. 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


259 


“Ah! monsieur 1’ Abbe,” sobbed Anderic, “the hor- 
rible, horrible catastrophe! Is God then inexorable?” 

“Trust to his mercy,” said the priest consolingly. 
“And to make yourself worthy of it, forgive her whose 
punishment followed her vengeance so closely.” 

At this moment Prat and Bonnel were depositing 
Fernande’s mutilated remains in the mill. Anderic 
turned away and muttered: 

“No! I cannot forgive.” 

“You can certainly pardon the dead, when another 
father has pardoned the living,” observed the abbe, 
pointing to Bonnel. 

Anderic pressed the hand of the good priest. The 
abbe’s words had conquered him. Another father! — 
Was there no hope for Germaine? The physician 
was working over the victims since over an hour, and 
he had been banished. Johanna appeared in the 
doorway. Old grudges existed no longer. Her eyes, 
tender and full of tears, rested with an expression of 
unutterable sadness on the nephew, hitherto so vio- 
lently hated. 

“Come and console Edith,” she said. “She loved 
your daughter.” 

Supported by Bonnel, Anderic entered. 

Edith was lying on a bed, holding Germaine close 
to her. She would not consent that they should be 
separated. He gazed long at his child and, as he 
kissed the icy brow, he uttered a prayer for the 
mother. 


26 o 


A BROKEN CHAIN 


“My poor friend!” murmured Edith in a voice so 
low that it seemed like the breath of an angel. 

He laid her head on his shoulde'r, sobs shook his 
frame, and the half-closed eyes of the child seemed 
to smile on their grief, as if to thank them for forget- 
ting the end of their sorrows, to weep over her flight 
to heaven. \ 


THE END. 


MICHELINE. 


By Hector Malot. 12M0. Paper. Illus- 
trated. 


“ Hector Malot is one of the most charming French 
writers. Micheline is one of his strongest works, and 
the translation is good.” — The Arkansas Gazette. 

“The theme of the story will recall the leading 
features of * East Lynne.’ ” — San Francisco Chronicle . 

“The story, of course, is French, and has some 
peculiar features, but is one that any one can read. 
The characters are well drawn, and many parts of the 
book are very touching.” — The San Francisco Morning 
Call . 

“The scenes are vivid from the start, and the inter- 
est is well maintained throughout.” — The Rochester 
(N. Y.) Union and Advertiser . 

“A happy translation of a charming French novel.” 
— Davenport Democrat . 

DONOHUE, HENNEBERRY & CO., Publishers, 

CHICAGO. 


THE MADONNA OF PASS CHRISTIAN 

12mo, 491 Pages, Illustrated. Paper Cover. 

A little Catholic Church among the evergreen oaks of a country village on the 
coast of the “ Mexican Gulf ” contains one of the several Madonnas of Pass Christian 
One Sunday morning a tired-out traveler from Boston falls asleep there, and dreams 
of the Virgin who stands before him near the altar. Her features and expression 
somewhat resemble those of a woman whom he has loved and who has died. In the 
changes of his dream, her place is taken by a celestial sweetheart. The face of this 
vision appears to him again afterwards, in the midst of the Carnival Ball at New 
Orleans, in the countenance of a Madonna-like young dancer. Although she is 
beautiful, an heiress, and from Chicago, the Bostonian discovers her to be as unhappy 
as the Mater Dolorosa, and as wanting in soul as the holy image of Mary, or as the 
pagan Galatea which the sculptor, Pygmalion, set up and loved. The enthrallment 
of the human statue is also as petrified and stony as marble, and is induced by her 
love, who is an atheist, a seducer and a lawyer from Kansas City. This alluring com- 
pound has the desires of Faust and the aaroitness of Mephistopheles, and he cleverly 
argues her into a skepticism which disbelieves all but in making the most of physical | 
life and sensual pleasure. 

One night this heroine watches for the phantom boat and its ghostly crew— said to 
haunt the coast of Pass Christian. As she stands under a desolate tree, waiting for 
goblins, a murderous attack is made upon her by an escaped lunatic. Fortune brings 
the Bostonian to her rescue. A friendship between them begins. The one is drawn 
by gratitude, the other by his psychological interest in the creation of a mind. Like 
Plato, in Socratic dialogues, he shows her the eternal life of the spirit, and gradually 
leads her out of the temple of Venus, away from the idols of sensualism and material- 
ism, and fixes her second sight upon a view of the unseen world. 

The subject of the novel is the immortality of the soul, and all other considerations 
have been subordinated to the development of the theme. This has been the main 
effort of the author. His argument is founded not on an assumption that the historians 
and essayists of the Bible were “ inspired,” but on circumstantial evidence. The only 
testimony adduced is what would be admitted by a law court, in the proof of any other 
fact. The demonstration proceeds from self-evident truths, confesses the claims of 
Renan, Strauss, Darwin, and of the infidel schools of thought, but avoids their force by 
a strategic disposition of proofs; axioms, the testimony of nature, history, and the 
visible universe constitute the basis of the author’s reasoning, and on this foundation 
a superstructure is reared, with support gathered from all sources, and secured by a 
chain of proofs that appears irrefragible. Nothing has been disregarded whose 
omission would leave the demonstration incomplete, and finally the erring Madonna is 
led to say 

“ Love seems the music of the universe. With the keynote of divine love all specu- 
lation concerning our destiny must harmonize. Otherwise, Darwin’s song (like other 
melodies very pretty when listened to by themselves— but which become discordant 
when introduced into one of Beethoven’s divine symphonies) and Comte’s and Inger- 
soll’s and Spencer’s ballads— all jar harshly when they approach within hearing of 
God’s own symphony that shall roll on, invisible music, when all things visible have 
passed away. ” 

Many of those whom the myths and some incredible stories of Biblical writers 
have left dejected and hopeless of any life beyond this, may be cheered by the solace 
and comfort which is off ered by this book, into believing, like Cardinal Newman, that 
“ with the morn the angel faces will smi'e, whom we have loved and lost awhile.” 

The background of this inquiry into death and the resurrection is formed by the 
moss-hung oaks and woody cypresses which line the Southern Gulf. Like light in dark- 
ness are the sunny orange groves, the flashe - of blue water, and the bright colors and 
motion of the New Orleans carnival. Into the midst of the philosophy stalks a nei'ro, 
Ward McAllister by name, who claims that he is the illegitimate descendant of a New 
York gentleman, and whose diction is so extravagant that he may well seem the dis- 
ciple, if not the son, of the sec ; al sage of Goose Creek. Mrs. Rakeless, Mrs. Ribold 
and Mrs. Tweaser from New York, also gayly flutter amongst the stern theology of 
the dark pine forests of Pass Christian; with the atheist lawyer and lover they form a 
witches’ frolic— an eerie band that is shattered at last by murder and lightning. 

This novel is an answer to “ Robert Elsmere.” It is also the only work in existence 
which fully describes the New Orleans carnivals. 

The drowning, burial and rising again of the heroine’s second lover end3 well this 
“Tale of the Resurrection.” 

For sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers, or will be sent by the 
Publishers on receipt of price. 


DONOHUE, HENNEBERRY & CO., Publishers, Chicago. 

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